Masks
by goodgirl-astray
Summary: Arya is 15 when she meets the Hound while King Robert visits Winterfell. A connection forms between them and when they meet again 3 years later, Arya is in the Night's Watch disguised as a boy, and the Hound became a Faceless Man. The truth behind the masks reveals itself and on their way to the Wall, they must deal with their feelings and growing mutual attraction. Smut happens
1. Chapter 1

**Masks**

 **Chapter 1**

For story purposes, let's imagine there are rocky cliffs in the woods where the hunt is going on, and there's also a mountain stream. A wide and deep mountain stream.

Apparently, the belief that you shouldn't allow someone to go to sleep after a head injury is a myth. You're just supposed to watch out for changes in behavior, dilated pupils, trouble walking or sleeping, and other symptoms. Not only Sandor can't check these things in their situation, but he doesn't have a very sophisticated understanding of medicine (not that I do, either). So he just tries to keep her awake. But that all happens in the next chapter.

* * *

This story was not beta-read. If you spot any mistakes or if you'd like to beta-read future chapters, please email me at at gmail com

* * *

 **Arya's POV**

"A boar hunt is no place for a child," Ned Stark said.

She had expected that argument. As long as he didn't flat out refuse, she had a chance.

"I'm older than Bran, and he's allowed to come."

Her father looked at her severely. His somber grey stare worked on her brothers, but it never worked on Arya. His eyes looked too much like hers. She practiced for such conversations by staring in a mirror.

"I'm better with a bow than he is," she went on, starting to tick the points on her fingers. "I'm a better rider than him. I don't climb in trees or on castle walls."

He didn't seem convinced, but he hadn't brushed her off yet. He did not enjoy denying her requests. Not even when he was surprised by them. The world might have thought that Lord Eddard Stark had two daughters, but in fact he had five sons. She had to make him say yes before mother showed up and she'd be sent back to sewing.

"I'm more responsible than him. If you take me on the hunt, I promise to watch out for him and make sure he doesn't get in trouble."

"You can come with us. And you will be responsible for the both of you. I don't want to hear that anything happened to you or to Bran."

She jumped to her feet and gave him a quick hug. He hugged her back, and left shaking his head.

'Five sons, Father. Better get used to it.'

She heard the barking and the drunken laughter. When she turned toward the sounds, she saw a group of boys elbowing each other while looking across the courtyard where Prince Joffrey was talking to his shield - the big man with a scared face. Next to them rested a helmet shaped like the head of a big ugly dog.

They barked again, then scurried off toward the stables before the big man could see their faces. The prince kept looking at his shiny sword, but his shield's gaze was drawn to the noise. To her surprise, he didn't seem angry.

But she was.

Arya knew how it felt. She was angry for all those times that stupid Jeyne neighed whenever she came near. She was angry that those drunken little shits made fun of a guest. Before she could think it through, she stormed off to the stables, grabbing a wooden sword off the rack.

Her heart pounded and blood roared in her ears.

When she got in the stables, the idiots were still guffawing and barking. She hit one of them hard across the buttocks with the width of the wooden sword. He yelped and made to run. The other three stopped laughing. Their dull eyes focused on her.

"You ugly cunt," one of them said, taking a step toward her.

The one she hit looked at her with glossy, baleful eyes.

"This ugly cunt is a Stark of Winterfell and the four of you have just insulted a guest. A member of the Kingsguard."

"He didn't hear us," the one with black hair said.

"I heard you," she said. "I heard you shitting on the honor of my House."

That got their attention. She didn't have to threaten to tell Father about it. She never wanted to be a lady, but she would never not be a Stark.

"For the duration of the King's visit, you will be at the beck and call of Prince Joffrey's shield. You will make sure his horse is well tended to, his armor is polished, and he doesn't lack for anything. And you will not apologize for an insult you gave behind his back. You will show him the respect he deserves."

Halfway through her speech she realized that she had no idea who the man was. She didn't know his name, and the only symbol on his armor was the crown, so she didn't even know his House. He had the armor of a knight and the bearing of a warrior.

His name didn't matter. The man had done nothing to invite ridicule.

#

* * *

 **Sandor's POV**

He heard the barking and the sniggers. He didn't have to turn his head to know it came from the four boys who had stared at him earlier. He tried to pay attention to what Prince Joffrey was saying, but he tuned out when he started talking about his betrothal to the Stark girl.

He was talking about the girl's beauty. Though Sandor agreed with him, she was quite a pretty little bird, he couldn't say it aloud. It wasn't for the likes of him to talk about the charms of Northern princesses.

"Get the horses, Dog" Prince Joffrey said. "We'll go for a ride before it gets dark. I didn't get a chance to see this place, stuck inside the carriage all the time."

'With your bitch mother, too.'

There were many things he thought but couldn't say to the Prince. It would have done him a world of good to learn about the real world. But Sandor Clegane was not the boy's father and it wasn't his place to act like one. Even if the King was more often drunk than sober, and he was letting the Prince's education in the hands of the Queen.

He was about to enter the stable when he heard a loud thwack! followed by a boy's voice.

 _"You ugly cunt."_

 _"This ugly cunt is a Stark of Winterfell and you four have just insulted a guest. A member of the Kingsguard."_

He almost smiled. It was funny really. He couldn't remember a single instance when anyone gave a damn about him. He heard more insults in a month than he had heard kind words all his life. He wondered which of the Stark children had taken it into their head to defend his honor.

Going by the voice, he placed the child in his mid teens. That meant it was probably Brandon. The boy who liked to climb. Angry, thudding steps hurried toward him and he thought about stepping out of the way.

To his surprise, the body which cannoned into him, was not young Brandon's. A young girl looked up at him with Eddard Stark's cold eyes. This was the daughter not engaged to Joffrey. The lucky one.

Her face was round, her skin flushing red. She was fairly tall, rather skinny and flat chested for a girl of ten and six but she seemed to have retained some baby fat. She had a tiny mouth, and her thin lips formed a perfect O when she saw him. He liked the way she looked at him. Boldly. Not flinching at his scars. He put his hands on her shoulders and move her out of the way as gently as he knew how.

He never got to play with girls when he was a boy. As a man, he had even less interactions with girls. All he knew about princesses was that he should stay the fuck away. Was it a breach in etiquette to manhandle a princess of the North like that?

* * *

 **Arya's POV**

This was so unfair. The one time she got permission to join the hunt, and Bran managed to spoil it all for her. He'd been climbing on trees like a monkey from the Summer Isles. And now he was scaling a gods damned cliff.

Her feet skidded on the rocks. Some of them dislodged under her feet and she lost her balance. She fell hard on one knee. She winced when she stood up. That was going to leave a bruise.

"Bran, get down from there."

The noises of the hunt were getting further and further away. Arya thought about leaving him there to catch up with the hunt and tell their father, but if she got him involved, neither of them was likely to get any freedom in the foreseeable future. As much as she would have loved to see Bran locked in a room with Maester learning about long dead kings and longer dead monsters, she could be pretty sure that she'd be in that same room. Or worse. She shuddered. She could be sentenced to sewing.

They both knew she couldn't climb after him, but she had to scare him somehow.

"Don't make me shoot you down!"

She caressed the length of her bow. Her fingers itched to see if she could put an arrow in that patch of moss a few feet from him. She huffed and relaxed her hand. Of course she wouldn't shoot at her own brother.

The last thing she saw before the earth ran from under her feet was Bran smiling happy while he waved to her from the top. She tried to jump, to run faster than the rocks hurtling toward her. The soil under her feet started to shift and she lost control of the direction. She heard Bran screaming her name, thought about holding on to a tree, but when she looked back she saw that bigger boulders were now rolling down the slope. She let herself go with the flow. Her only concern was to avoid getting crushed.

The landslide took her all the way to the stream. The level of the stream was at its highest, after the rainpour of the past few weeks. And it was bloody cold, too.

Rocks had banged her ankles, branches had slashed at her clothes, but nothing compared to the icy coldness of the water. Boulders kept rolling off the slope, breaking into smaller pieces as they bounced and smashed into the ground.

The current was trying to drag her downwards. That stream was one of the many flowing into the headwaters of the White Knife river. Her arms and legs hurt, but she decided to try to swim across the stream instead of going with the torrent. The other bank seemed close, but the strong current, and freezing water made it all but impossible to cross.

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and she would not give up.

The stream had dragged her half a mile from the point where she had fallen into it by the time she got close enough to the other side to feel the earth under her feet. The force of the torrent kept pushing her further along, but she kept going. Even when the water was shallow, the current kept threatening to drag her away. She crawled on hands and knees until she made it to the other side.

Her head was spinning. All she could hear in her ears was the deafening sound of the running water. She wondered if Bran was all right. He'd been right at the top of that cliff when it started to crumble.

Should she shout for help? Would anyone hear her in the woods? Or would she attract the attention of boars, or bears, or wolves?

Her teeth chattered. Right. She was freezing. She couldn't afford to take off her clothes to dry, but she should find some kind of shelter. Making a fire was unlikely. She didn't have any flint, and nothing to use as tinder. Everything in the woods was soggy after the weeks and weeks of rain.

Shelter. She needed a place to stay dry. And fast. Judging by the sun's position, she had less than an hour of decent light.

* * *

#

 **Sandor's POV**

He sensed something was wrong before anyone else. He raised his head, looked all around, not knowing without what he was looking for. He noticed that the horses seemed to do the same. The hounds were following the trail of the boar, but even they stopped, moments before everyone heard the noise.

Sandor had never heard that sound before, but Eddard Stark identified it.

"Landslide," he shouted. "Protect the King. Go west, back to the main trail."

The Hound was at his Prince's side, taking the reigns of Joffrey's horse calmly, but firmly. He led the horse west and in a few minutes they were at the main trail. The sounds of the landslide barely audible any more.

He waited for the orders to march back to Winterfell, satisfied that his Prince was safe. The expression on Eddard Stark's face was anything but calm.

"What's wrong, Ned?" King Robert asked.

"Bran and Arya are not here," Stark said. "Your Grace, I ask leave to look for them. The road is safe from here all the way to Winterfell. Please go back without me."

"Don't be a fool, man! I'm not going back while your children are missing. We'll look for them."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Stark said.

He started organizing the men into groups.

"Your Grace, it's going to be night soon. You and Prince Joffrey should go back to Winterfell," Jamie Lannister said.

"Take Joffrey back," King Robert said. "I'm staying here."

The Hound saw the wisdom in getting Joffrey to safety, but he couldn't stand the gnawing feeling that he should be out there, looking for them. For her.

"My Lord, " he said, approaching the Prince. "Allow me to stay and help with the search."

"Very well, Dog," he said. "I expect you will be able to sniff them out far better than any of these people."

Charming as always his Prince. The Hound nodded curtly. He grabbed a torch and hurried into the woods to catch up with the others. After they found the place of the landslide, Stark started splitting them into groups when they heard a boy's voice.

"Arya! Arya!"

They followed the sound and they found Brandon Stark, clothes torn and limping, but alone.

"Arya was here," he said as soon as he saw his father. "I don't know where she is. I don't know."

It was getting dark. They traced the path of the landslide all the way to the water. They could see that many boulders had been dragged by the current downstream. Stark gave directions to look for the girl down the river, along the banks.

He chose to be in the group that crossed the river. The freezing water tried to pull him along, but he was a strong son of a bitch. He was the first to make it to the other side of the stream. The others got out further down, and they started shouting her name and proceeding slowly south, with the river.

He let them move on, looking carefully for any traces of her. Everyone thought she was carried south by the river, but he couldn't help thinking that she had crossed the water and sought shelter.

It was almost too dark to see, but his eyesight was keen enough to see the footprints. Not along the river, like those of the searching party. These small footprints were going into the woods. He let the others move along. Maybe they were right. There was no point in slowing them down for a hunch he could very well investigate on his own.

He had to call out for her. He'd be damned if he shouted 'Lady Arya'. He wouldn't be out there looking for a highborn lady.

"Girl! Girl, are you here?"

The torchlight barely cast enough light to follow any tracks. He kept walking, following an instinct he had long learned to listen to when it came to life or death.

"Girl! I'm a member of the Kingsguard. I'm here to take you home. Girl!"

Kingsguard would mean something to her. He kept going. Shouting and stumbling.

"Girl!"

He had to hope that she would hear him or see the torchlight. The storm started without warning. The torch went out instantly and the only thing illuminating the darkness were the lightning scarring the sky.

"Girl!"

He hardly heard his own voice over the heavy rain, but he kept calling out.

"Girl!"

"Here!"

The voice was faint and the treacherous environment made it impossible for him to pinpoint its exact origin. Fortunately, the girl shouted again.

"I'm here."

Lightning stroke close enough that he could hear the crackling of the tree it hit. That flash was enough to see the mouth of a cave in the area from where the voice came. He sped up the slope toward her, and his boots slid in the mud, moss and dead leaves. He lost his footing and crashed hard into a tree trunk. His shoulder popped out painfully.

He was getting back up when he saw the girl running toward him. She slipped even worse than him on the treacherous ground. He extended his arm to catch her but his damaged shoulder stopped the movement short, and he missed. The sound of the falling body didn't end with a cry of pain. He cursed under his breath, fearing the worst.

On hands and knees, he made his way to her. He picked up the unconscious girl as best he could and ignored the pain as he made his way carefully back up to the cave.

It turned out not to be the entrance to a cave, but simply a shallow cave. A rock shelter. At least it was big enough for both of them. He had to kneel down to fit in, but he was grateful for the shelter. He laid her down her gently and scuttled inside after her.

He couldn't do anything about her wet clothes, but she would be warm enough in there, his body shielding her from the rain.

"Wake up, girl," he said, slapping her face gently.

He'd seen people who hit their head and never awoke again from their sleep. He put his hand on her clammy forehead.

'Come on, girl, don't give up now.'

"Wake up," he repeated.

Arya Stark gasped and opened her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Ok so Arya discovered the Cunningham technique of reducing a dislocated shoulder. Sue me!

Seriously thought, check it out on YouTube. It's like 50 seconds with virtually no pain. Good stuff. Even so, I hope I never need it.

Also – I'm not sure if they wore armor during a hunt. I assumed not to because it played better in the story.

* * *

Not beta-read. Email me at if I messed up stuff in the story or if you want to help with future chapters.

* * *

 **Sandor's POV**

"Who are you?"

"A member of the Kingsguard. I'll take you to Winterfell tomorrow."

"Don't you have a name?" she asked drowsily. "A member…"

The girl giggled at the last word, and shifted onto her side. He opened his mouth to answer, but the girl pressed her head onto his arm and her breathing slowed down. He jerked his arm away, and shook her shoulder.

"Hey, you gotta stay awake."

"Why?"

She yawned and tried to find another comfortable position to go to sleep. He should have told her the truth, but his mouth reacted on instinct.

"Because I said so."

He had barked the words. He knew how his voice sounded. He'd scared enough people in his life. He'd rather have her scared and awake than calm and dead. Much to his surprise, she didn't seem scared.

"That's stupid," she said, with an unexpected irritation in her voice. At least she was awake.

"How come a girl like you came on the hunt? Are you a wildling or something?"

"I am no wildling," she said.

She almost jumped up, forgetting about the low ceiling of their shelter. She would have banged her head on the rocks but his instinct was faster. His hand was on her head and it got smashed between her skull and the rocks. He pushed her head and she flopped back down next to him.

He sucked at his bruised knuckles.

"Sorry," she said.

She huffed, and when she spoke there was a definite trace of irritation in her voice.

"Maybe I am a wildling. I hate being told what to do. I'm not allowed to do so many things because I'm a girl. But I don't want to do the things that girls do. Sewing is boring. House chores are boring."

"Can't argue with that," Sandor said. "But it's what ladies need to know."

"I'm no lady."

He grinned in the darkness. How many times he'd said 'I'm no Ser'?

"You're gonna be."

"What's so great about being a lady? What do I have to look for? Marry someone I don't know because his House is suitable. Having children even if we hate each other. No, thank you."

That was a fair assessment of how things worked, and he was at a loss. That was the way of the world. Not for the little girl to change it.

"You should join the Kingsguard," he said chuckling.

"Why?"

"Because we are expressly forbidden to get married or have children"

"Yeah, well, I don't think they accept girls in the Kingsguard."

"I was joking, girl"

"You never know until you try, though. I could pass as a boy."

"No, you couldn't. You're too pretty."

Arya shifted clearly uncomfortable with the compliment.

"What do you do in the Kingsguard?"

"I'm Prince Joffrey's shield."

He had never thought that a girl might not want to marry and have children. If not for his disfigurement, he would have married and sired children as soon as it was proper to do that. Killing was sweet, but as a man he didn't have to choose between marriage and war. He was curious.

"So, you don't want to be a lady. What do you want to do?" he asked.

"This," she said. "Hunting. Riding. Shooting the bow. Fighting in battles."

"Maybe you are a wildling after all," he said.

She elbowed him viciously in the arm, and he groaned at the sharp pain. She had bumped his dislocated shoulder. If he had worn his armor this wouldn't have happened.

"Don't mock me," she said. "I didn't hit you that hard. I can hit way harder than that."

"You hit me like a little girl," he said.

"Then why-"

"My shoulder's not right."

"Are you hurt?"

"'s nothing. It's pissing outside or I would have banged it back in. No room in here."

"Let me help you," she said.

"Fuck off."

"Tsk, tsk. That's not language to use in front of a lady."

"You're no lady."

She laughed. "Fucking true," she said.

He tried to pretend the bark of laughter was a grouchy growl. Why couldn't this girl be the next King? He wouldn't mind protecting someone like her.

"I know how to do this," she said. "It happened to my brother when he fell from a tree and I helped him."

"Why? Does House Stark have no Maesters?"

"We try to avoid involving them. You would not believe how annoyed Mother and Father when they find out about the tiniest things."

"It doesn't hurt that much. A Maester can fix it tomorrow."

"Oh, so I can go to sleep now?" she asked innocently.

"No."

"Then let me do this."

"Fine, you little brat. How should I stay?"

"Sit up straight. Rest your back against the wall and relax."

He heard her moving around and soon he felt her knees pressing against hit thigh.

"I can't see what I'm doing, so I'll have to feel my way through."

Her hands were at the top of his tunic, untying it. He caught her wrists stopping her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

* * *

 **Arya's POV**

Her jaw dropped and her eyebrows shot up. She was speechless for a moment. What kind of a stupid question was that?

"I have to get to your shoulder, don't I?"

She jerked her hands free of his loose grasp.

"Bran is never this fussy," she said under her breath.

She went on untying his tunic. The body under the cloth was so much different than her brother's. Bran was almost as small as her, and she could feel his bones and joints easily through the skin. Now, she was discovering muscles and hair, and everywhere she poked with her fingers, she only found hard, strong flesh. She was touching a man's body. Better not think about that. It had to be constructed the same way as Bran's. All she had to do was find the shoulder.

Her left palm stopped on top of his right shoulder. The skin was soft and warm to the touch, but under it… so much more flesh than she was used to feeling. She felt his breath on her neck. When had she gotten so close to him? Her skin tingled and a yet unknown warmth pooled in her belly.

"The other shoulder," he said.

"I know," she said tartly. "I wanted to see what it's supposed to look like after I fix it."

She moved on to the left shoulder, trailing her fingers across his chest, through coarse hair that tickled her. She would have expected to be grossed out. But she wasn't.

'Left shoulder. Remember what you did for Bran.'

She wouldn't say she had gotten used to the feel of massive muscles under her fingertips, but she felt immediately where something was out of place. Not as clearly as she could feel it for Bran, but, huge muscles aside, it was the same type of body. Yes, she had to keep telling herself that.

"Relax," she said again. "This is not going to hurt."

An incredulous bark was all the reply she got. She aligned herself with his body. She guided his hand on the inside of her elbow, trying to support the weight of his forearm on hers.

"Seven hells," she muttered. "You're longer."

Bran's and her forearm were roughly the same length, and it was easy to hold it. She moved his hand further up her arm, but the small groan from him informed her that the new position caused him pain. She put his hand on top of her thigh, but when she reached for his shoulder she found that it had shifted the wrong way.

She placed his left hand on her ribcage, on top of her heart, and used her right arm to support his forearm as best she could. He had tensed again and she smacked his forearm lightly.

"I said relax."

She stood higher on her knees and bent over so that she could reach his shoulder. She started kneading his muscles with her right hand. It was so much more flesh between her fingers and the joint. All she had to do was relax those huge muscles and gently allow the bones to realign.

"Tell me if it hurts."

He snorted. The sound reminded her of a particularly stubborn horse.

"I don't care if it's pain you can take, it's not supposed to hurt. If it does, I'm doing it wrong."

She went on massaging him with slow, deliberate movements. It was so different than when she did this to Bran. More work. That was it. Her tiny hand was not strong enough to work the muscles of his shoulder, upper back and upper arm. His breath hitched a couple of times, but when she asked if it hurt, he said a curt no.

She tried to ignore the big hand propped against her ribcage. She wondered if he could feel her heart hammering, right under his palm. Her hand was probably getting tired and sloppy because she did something wrong and his hand squeezed her flesh in response a couple of times.

She closed her eyes and sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to hold back any sound that might escape her mouth. He probably wasn't aware, but his hand rested right under the swell of her small breast.

She heard his sigh of relief, and he took off his hand from her torso. She instantly missed the pressure and the warmth. He started to move his arm exploratorily and Arya removed her tired right hand from his shoulder.

"Are you ok?" she asked.

"Bloody incredible, girl. I know people who lost their ability to wield a sword after a Maester set their shoulder back."

She settled next to him, with her back against the wall and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine herself wearing the white cloak. What kind of King would she serve? Joffrey seemed dumb and annoying but maybe it was just because of Sansa's reaction. She was smitten with him at first sight. Or maybe she just like to the idea of being queen even more than that of being a highborn lady.

"Don't bloody fall asleep," he said.

She jerked back. When had she rested her head on his shoulder? She was getting sleepy. Maybe it was the steady sound of rain.

"Tell me a story if you want me to stay awake."

"Stories are supposed to get you to sleep, not keep you up."

"Tell me how you got those scars on your face," she said.

He tensed for a moment. Was he angry that she asked?

"If I tell you, promise to stay awake?"

She thought about it. She was curious about the scars, but if she promised to stay awake… how would she amuse herself afterwards? Curiosity got the better of her.

"I promise."

He took in a short breath, but he didn't speak immediately. Arya wondered if he had changed his mind about telling her the story.

"When I was a child, my bedding caught fire, and it burned my face."

"You lied!" she exclaimed before she could think about it.

"What?"

"You just lied to me," she said. "Well, that means that at least I can go to sleep now."

She turned her back to him and curled into a ball, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. Why was she so sure that he had lied?

He pawed through the darkness on her body, his fingers bumping on hip and ribs and elbow until he found her ear. His grip was every bit as painful as her mother's. He pulled her up, and Arya had no choice but to obey or risk losing an ear.

"You promised to stay awake," he said, letting go of her ear.

She might have been wrong, but she thought she felt his knuckles brush over her burning ear.

"Not going to keep my promise for a lie."

"How do you know it was a lie?" he asked thoughtfully.

"If I tell you, you have to tell me the truth."

"Why do you even care?" he asked.

"I'm curious," she said.

"You sure are."

It wasn't just curiosity though. Not the same curiosity she had in common with Bran, about finding out something new. She was curious about a man who wore the helmet shaped like a dog's head and whom his own master called Dog.

"This isn't a story many people know, and I'd like to keep it that way."

'Why?' she wanted to ask immediately, but didn't.

"No one will hear it from me," she said, and meant it.

"When I was six, I was playing with one of my brother's toys by the fire. He saw me, and pushed my head into the fire. My father didn't want it known, so he told everyone my bedding caught fire."

She gasped, and snuck her arm under his. She pressed her cheek into his biceps, squeezing her eyes to hold back stinging tears. Six years old. She wished she could gather that boy into her arms and keep him safe.

"Your turn," he said.

She swallowed the knot of tears in her throat.

"Your voice. When you told the lie. It didn't sound right. It was… donno… flat? It sounded like mine used to sound when I told lies."

"You don't tell lies any more?" he asked.

She grinned smugly. "I don't get caught any more. I used to get punished twice, once for the bad thing I did, and once for lying."

"I doubt that was the lesson you were supposed to learn," he said, sounding impressed. "What sort of lies to you tell now?"

"Oh, boring ones," she said. "I'm not supposed to do things, or go places, but I do. And then I lie about where I was. But now I prepare myself better before lying. I don't just say the words, I tell them something that I really did, just not at the precise time they're asking about."

His laughter shook his whole body. It felt good to hear him laugh. The sound seemed to warm up the place. She closed her eyes and burrowed deeper into his side. He wrapped his big arm around her shoulders and pulled her even closer.

Her clothes were still wet, and the humidity seemed to have sunken all the way to her bones. She drew in a deep breath trying to relax, unsure where this sudden tension had come from. The smell of leather, sweat and smoke blended into a heady scent. A man's scent.

She was in the arms of a man she hardly knew. She should be scared. Maybe fear explained the stirrings in her belly. Like hunger. Like anticipation of a feast. The sensation was puzzling. And sweet. A shiver ran through her.

"You're still cold," he said and started rubbing her back.

'Stop it.'

'I'm not cold.'

The words failed her. She certainly wasn't cold anymore but how could she explain it. She didn't understand why suddenly her skin seemed on fire. And yet, she played along. Pretending she was cold. She drew herself closer to him, burying her face in his chest.

"Don't fall asleep," he said.

She shivered again when she felt his broad chest vibrating as he spoke. The low rumbling gravelly voice caressed her ears and caused a strange ache into her little body.

* * *

 **Sandor's POV**

Despite his warnings, the girl's body mellowed into his. He couldn't quite hear the sound of her breathing, the damn rain still muffling most other sounds, but he felt her relaxing. That in itself was a surprise. What kind of child would relax so close to him?

Child. He had to repeat the word to himself. He had to erase the feel of her tiny breast against his fingers. Her little heart beat so fast while she worked diligently to unknot his hulking body. Maesters were anything but gentle when they treated injuries. Not even well paid whores had treat his body with such tenderness.

She was a child. She probably hadn't even flowered yet, or the Starks would have married her off. He grimaced at the thought of the wildling Stark forced to marry. Bedded without love. Bred like a broodmare. Maybe he should do her a favor and let her sleep. Give her the gift of leaving a world too small for someone like her.

"Are you asleep?" he asked.

He gritted his teeth in the silence. He had to wake her up again. He reached down to pinch her. His hand hovered, unsure what would be a safe place. He worried his hand might stray and end up on her breast or… worse.

Her thigh was pressed against his. He trailed his fingers up from her knee, and grabbed the outside of her thigh. His original thought was to pinch her once, hard enough to wake her. He froze at the memory of Gregor's monstrous hand on the thigh of a girl, mauling her while she thrashed under his weight.

He squeezed her thigh far more softly than he had intended, and Arya's reaction was a whimper. The sound earthed itself in his groin.

'She's a child.'

'Is she really?'

He shook himself.

"Wake up, girl."


	3. Chapter 3

I couldn't find where the direwolves were kept and I can't go through the season 1 episodes again. On the show, when Jon comes to Arya's room to give her Needle, Nymeria is there, so they are inside Winterfell. I assumed the Direwolves sleep in the kennels, even if they are somehow separated from the regular dogs.

I couldn't find where the direwolves were kept and I can't go through the season 1 episodes again. On the show, when Jon comes to Arya's room to give her Needle, Nymeria is there, so they are inside Winterfell. I assumed the Direwolves sleep in the kennels, even if they are somehow separated from the regular dogs.

Ned Stark waits for the Septa's assurance that Arya is still a virgin before going to Sandor to thank him.

* * *

 **Arya**

Arya sat on the edge of the bed swinging her legs. She looked up at the ceiling, counting the beams from window to door while Maester Luwin poked and prodded and tried to figure out if there was anything wrong with her.

She stood up and sat down and coughed, and did everything he asked because both her parents were in the room. And they did not look happy. Or even relieved that she was home.

She let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes when the Maester got to her ankles. She'd had worse scrapes and bruises when she tussled with Nymeria, but judging by her mother's stern look, saying that would have probably made things worse.

"She's fine, my Lady," Maester Luwin said. "I'll put some balm on her scrapes to help heal the skin, and I'll come again tomorrow to see if there are any signs of a cold."

"Thank you, Maester. I'm going to check on Bran," her mother said.

Lady Stark threw her a look that promised a long and unpleasant talk later on, and stormed out of the room. Arya had to suppress a laugh when she saw the look her father got. He was going to have a long and unpleasant conversation about why Arya was allowed to go hunting in the first place.

She didn't like the deep crease between her father's eyebrows. Why was he still worried? Both of them were fine. So, Bran was going to limp for a while, but he had been worse. Until he grew wings, they were going to have to get used to him getting hurt from time to time.

When the Maester finished, Arya jumped off the bed. Her father put a hand on her shoulders.

"Sit down," he said.

He walked after the Maester to the door, and after he left, he ushered in Septa Mordane.

Arya's eyes widened.

"What? Why?" she asked, but her father left the room and closed the door behind him.

"Lay down on the bed, child," the Septa said.

"Are you kidding?" Arya asked, spluttering. "What in the seven hells…"

She couldn't find words to express her outrage and bewilderment.

"I don't want to call your father back in, but I will if you don't lay down."

She did as she was told. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears of shame and anger.

Her cheeks burned. This was so unfair! No one would have put Bran or Robb, or any of the other boys through something like this.

The Septa's hands were cold, her movements precise. She gritted her teeth while the old woman touched her in places Arya only touched when she washed herself.

"It's all right, child," Septa Mordane said. "You can get dressed now."

To Arya's surprise, the Septa kissed her forehead before leaving the room.

* * *

 **Sandor**

The Prince was happy that his Dog had found the girl, although he couldn't care less about her. He was a petty boy, enjoying a petty victory. His Dog was better than the Northerners. Big fucking deal. But he didn't sneer at the reward of Lannister gold from the boy. Nor to his offer to take a few hours off to sleep after his heroic behavior.

The Hound retreated in the stables, certain that the four idiot boys would make sure he was not disturbed, following Arya's commands.

He prided himself that he understood how the world worked, and he hadn't thought he could be surprised by the lies people told themselves. That girl also understood how the world worked; she just refused to accept it.

It hadn't been his first sleepless night, and most likely it was not going to be his last, but Sandor was sure it would always count as one of the strangest. Even if he met dragons, white walkers or gods, he would still count Arya Stark as one of the strangest creatures he ever met.

He closed his eyes and relished the dry, clean hay. The noise and smell of horses were familiar and soothing. He was drifting to sleep when his senses alerted him to an intrusion.

He was surprised to hear the heavy boots coming straight toward him. Those fucking morons hadn't kept watch. He opened one eye, while his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He stood up fast when he recognized the man in who had approached him.

"Lord Stark," he said, bowing his head a fraction.

"Sandor Clegane. I owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing my daughter back safely."

He held out a bag of coins that looked twice the size of what he received from the Lannisters. He looked Eddard Stark in the eye as he spoke.

"I don't mean to offend, my Lord, but I didn't do it for any reward."

"I had offered none. Take the gold, and know that you will always be welcome at Winterfell."

He accepted the money diffidently. He didn't like to get involved with highborns. At least he knew what cunts the Lannisters were. Eddard Stark reached up and wrapped an arm wound his shoulders, pulling him down into an awkward brief hug.

"You're a good man," he said, then swiftly walked away as if he was embarrassed by the display of weakness.

Sandor lay back in the hay, shaking his head. Family. Maybe it meant more than a name for some people.

* * *

 **Arya**

She was still seething after the examination. Why were people so stupid? She wondered if her father had put her through this if one of his bannermen had found her.

The soft knock on her door jolted her out of her pondering. Her face lit up when she opened the door to see Jon Snow. She hugged him, and he held her in his arms longer than usual. When he finally let go, his gaze was dark.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm leaving tonight with uncle Benjen."

Her heart froze. With uncle Benjen. Jon was going to the Wall.

"Jon, no. You… you… can't."

'… leave me. You can't leave me.'

Her voice broke. The words choke her.

"I have something for you," Jon said.

The skinny sword he brought her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She held back the tears until the door closed behind him. She could break bones and not shed a tear, but Jon's leaving broke her heart in thousands of tiny pieces.

She didn't go to the feast that evening. Throwing food at Sansa in front of her precious Joffrey held no appeal.

She wondered about the courtyard, silent like a ghost, keeping to the shadows, away from people. Why did Jon have to leave? No one understood her like Jon.

She went to the kennels, to hold Nymeria. Burying her face in the direwolf's fur would help. But Ghost was there, too, and he was too much part of Jon. She changed direction and went to the stables instead. She liked sleeping in the hay.

There were so many new horses there since the King had arrived. Arya wondered if she would recognize **his** horse. When he had first rode in, she'd been too fascinated with the helmet, then with his scars, to pay any attention to the horse.

She was about to lay down in the hay when she heard his voice.

"Did you bring more ale?"

She started.

"I didn't know I had to bring ale," she said in a squeaky voice.

The man sat up, and Arya wondered how could she have missed his massive body laying in her favorite spot. If he hadn't spoken, she might have well sat on him.

"I thought it was one of the stable boys. They got it into their head that they have to be polite to honored guests."

Good. So, they had heeded her commands.

"I'll go bring you some," she said.

He waved a hand dismissively. "No need. I've about as much as I can handle. Folks have been real nice to me since I brought you back."

"Did I thank you?"

"No."

"I should."

"You look like you're at a funeral. Why aren't you inside, enjoying the feast?"

"Why aren't you?"

She sat down next to him.

"What's eating you, girl?"

"How do you say goodbye to someone you love?"

He shifted, trying to look at her.

"What are you talking about?"

She sighed, and hung her head.

"My brother is leaving for the Wall. I'll probably never see him again."

He seemed to consider his words.

"You have to respect his choice. It's a great thing he does. The Night Watch has an important mission."

"Would you join?"

"I'm pledged for life to the Kingsguard," he said.

He thought about it. Being a White Cloak wasn't all that different than taking the Black. Mostly just the weather. Scuffles with wildlings instead of skirmishes with bandits. They hadn't even had a minor rebellion against the King in years.

"But if you hadn't?" she insisted. "If you could choose now, would you go?"

He shrugged. "Why not? It could be right for someone like me."

And what choices did he have anyway? Kingsguard, Night Watch, sell sword or brigand.

"What would you do?" he asked. "If you were a boy."

"The Free City of Braavos," she said immediately. "Just think about it. Free City. Founded by slaves. Run by free people."

"Find a way to tell me if you ever go there," he said.

She heard the smile in his voice. She heard warmth, not mockery.

"I promise," she said.

And meant it.

* * *

 **Sandor**

A few days later, at King Robert's insistence, another hunt was organized. The Queen sent word to him that the crown prince was not feeling well, and he would not be attending the hunt. He took the prince's horse and his back to the stables and decided to go to the training yard. His archery skills were pretty shit and this seemed like a good time to put in some practice without people watching him.

He wasn't the only one to have that idea. In the middle of the yard, Arya Stark was training. It was a generous assessment for what she was doing. It didn't look like anything he'd been taught. It sure didn't look like any of the ugly, efficient moves he used in brawls.

He had to admire her determination. And her fearlessness. She was one with her tiny blade. He smiled to himself. The thin short blade was perfect for her, and judging by how she held it, it must have been well balanced, too. Someone had put a lot of thought into that blade.

"Are you going to laugh at me or help me?" she said turning to look at him.

"Are you any good with that?" he asked, pointing at the bows.

She put the sword in its sheath and placed it neatly on a table. She chose one of the smallest bows and one arrow, then came next to him. She took aim and fired the arrow straight through the center of the target, on the far side of the yard.

"Pretty good," she said.

"I'll help you with the sword if you help me with the bow."

She looked him straight in the eye, trying to figure out if he made fun of her. He was wondering why he'd done it, wondering if he could turn it into a joke, when she pointed with her chin toward the bows.

"Show me."

He managed to hit the target, but barely. She brought him another arrow, and made a few small modifications to his stance. He was about to pull the bowstring when she stopped him. She arranged his fingers on the other side of the arrow. It was unsettling to see her slender fingers next to his. To feel her fingertips on his skin again.

She placed her palm over his hand and looked into his eyes.

"When you pull it back all the way, don't hold. Let the arrow go immediately."

"What about aiming?"

"No aiming. You have to know where you want the arrow to end up when you start drawing the bow string."

He did as she said, ignoring the ghostly sensation of her fingers on his. The arrow hit the target an inch closer to the center.

"Good," she said. "It took me months of practice to see that much improvement."

The problem with real combat was that you either got a shit lot better very fast, or you died.

"What were you practicing earlier? Didn't look like any sword fighting I ever saw," he said.

"I found a book from Braavos. They don't fight like us. Not with armors and big swords. They're fast and nimble and can kill you as soon as look at you."

Braavos again.

"I don't know about that. I can show you about fighting in Westeros."

A few hours later, they were both tired and hungry. Arya led him to her hidden corner of the kitchens and started messing about with the chair. She took off the seat and got a book out.

"No one ever looks for me here," she said. "I can read in peace here. I'll go get us some food."

It took her four trips to the larder to get everything. He occupied his time looking over the book. It was about Braavos. He flipped through it, and his eyes caught on some pages more than others. He wasn't a fast reader, so he didn't get very far by the time Arya had filled the table with chicken, mutton, cheese, bread, and wine.

He thought she might have exaggerated with the quantities on his behalf, but she started to tear through the food like an angry wolf. The sound of bones breaking under the table alerted him to the presence of the direwolf. Arya fed it bones as soon as she cleaned the meat off them. He put away the book and started eating, mildly worried she and her wolf would finish everything before he had a chance to eat.

"What do you know about the Freys?" she asked suddenly.

He winced at sound of the name. He'd met Walder Frey. Even by his low standards for nobility, the Hound had been disgusted by the cowardly, lecherous old man.

"Not much," he said. "Old house. Not much for fighting. Good strategic position. Why?"

The girl's jaw clenched and she put down the drumstick she'd been enjoying up to that point.

"I heard my parents talking. They want to marry me to one of them."

He put down his own food. What could he tell her? They both knew it would happen sooner or later. He was a little surprise by the Starks choice. He would have expected them to choose another Great House for their daughter.

"They wanted one of the boys, but my parents don't want a Frey to be born into the Stark name and have a solid claim to Winterfell."

Whatever reasons the Starks had to want an alliance with the Freys, they were making sure that whatever children resulted from that marriage would have the weakest claim to the North. They were sacrificing their youngest daughter for the good of their House.

He watched her grit her teeth, hating there was nothing he could do for her.

* * *

 **Arya**

They spoke once more before he left. Arya was all cried out after Jon's departure. She had no more tears to shed for this stranger who had somehow become important to her without even trying.

He looked for him the night before they left.

"I want to give you something," she said.

"I have something for you, too," he said.

He looked big and serious. She would always be grateful for the way he had treated her. He hadn't mocked her confessions about wanting to do boys things. Hadn't laughed at her for practicing with Needle. He took her seriously. Talked to her like an equal.

She scrunched her nose a little. His big brown eyes looked even sadder than usual. She was sad but she didn't like to see him sad.

"Me first," she said.

She pulled out the needle she had stuck in the hem of her tunic, took out a small magnet from her pocket, and showed them to him.

"Let me show you how it works."

She demonstrated how to magnetize the needle. She placed it on a leaf, placed the leaf on the water and the leaf turned around in the water.

"It points to the North. This way, you can always find your way back to Winterfell."

* * *

 **Sandor**

"Thank you," he said, taking the needle and the magnet from her hands.

He had thought that his gift was significant, but now he was almost embarrassed to give it to her. He had spent too much time around Lannisters

"You can use any needle, and any magnet," she said. Just remember how to do this, and you'll get here."

He reached into his pocket and handed her the bag. He had combined the coins he got from the Lannisters and from her father.

"I got them for bringing you home. Use them if you decide to go to Braavos."

She looked at the bag in her hand, and at him with big round eyes. The usual response to gold was greed or gratitude or both. Not tears sparkling like diamonds in a girl's eyes.

He watched her leave, knowing he would never see her again.

He packed his things for the trip back to King's Landing, thinking that he should have learned more about the world. He knew that Braavos existed, but not much else.

He wished he could ask the Imp about it. He was the one with his nose in a book whenever he didn't have his face in a cup or his cock in a whore. But Tyrion Lannister had gone North, to see the Wall.

A city founded by slaves.

A Free City.

The mere words plucked a chord in his cynical soul.


	4. Chapter 4

Shorter chapter, because I don't like them apart.

Also, kind of a gruesome chapter.

* * *

Can't wait to start working on the second half of the story.

Next chapter, we're jumping a few years. Arya and Sandor meet again, both of them wearing the masks they chose.

* * *

 **Arya**

The news of King Robert's death hit her father hard.

The news of Jon Arryn's death hit her father and her mother both. They were visiting Lysa Arryn in her time of grief when the third blow arrived.

Sansa's engagement to Joffrey had been annulled. The message from Lord Tywin Lannister also contained his request for Sansa's hand in marriage for his son, the acting Hand of the King. Tyrion Lannister.

When they got back to Winterfell, Arya made sure to sneak into the council chambers for every meeting her father had with the lords of the North. She heard them make plans for rebellion if the Lannisters would try to appoint another Warden of the North. She heard them talk about the importance of securing passage at the Twins.

In her room, Arya looked at the bag of gold from Sandor Clegane and at the perfect sword from Jon. She could run away to Braavos, and be free. Or stay in the North and protect the Realms of Men. Her heart pulled her to the South. To freedom. If she passed by King's Landing she'd find a way to see the Hound one last time. Before the war started.

 _"The Nigth Watch has an important mission."_

She couldn't abandon her family for such a selfish reason as being free to do what she liked. Even if they were planning on marrying her off without caring about her wishes.

Jon was in the Night's Watch. Out of all her siblings, Arya had always loved him most of all. She could become Arri Snow.

If she left, she'd be a traitor to her family, but joining the Night's Watch cancelled past crimes. She grimaced at the thought of being surrounded by men who had committed horrible crimes.

She could be the man she wanted to be if she joined.

She would have to be.

* * *

 **Sandor**

Soon after their return to King's Landing, a hunting accident claimed the life of the King. He wouldn't say he was surprised. Drunk as King Robert usually was, fat and sluggish as he got over the years, Sandor Clegane could believe it was an accident.

And there he was. Bodyguard to the new King. Robert Baratheon's corpse wasn't even cold when Joffrey and the Queen Mother began the changes. The first was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Out went Ser Barristan Selmy, in came Ser Jamie Lannister. It didn't matter to the Hound.

One of his main duties was to guard Joffrey's door when the girls from Littlefinger's brothel visited. He stood in front of that door, unmoving and protective, like the Titan of Braavos.

He knew about Braavos now. He hid pilfered books in his dingy little room as other man would stash gold coins. He read them at dawn, slowly, tracing the words with his finger, moving his lips and stumbling on big words and strange names.

At night, he closed his ears to the pitiful sounds that escaped through the massive oak door. He had no eyes for the bruises and blood stains on the girls who left that room. His lips were sewn shut when it came to keeping the King's secrets.

The second change was a more welcome surprise. Lord Jon Arryn was old and he seemed to have lost his wits. When illness claimed him, the raven from Casterly Rock stated that the youngest of the Queen's brothers would serve as King until Tywin Lannister himself arrived.

The Hound held out a tiny hope that the Imp could manage the King's insanity. Tyrion was the only one of the Lannisters who knew the real world and had contact with real people, though mostly whores and sellswords. For Sandor Clegane, the real world was mostly made up of whores and sellswords too.

That hoped died the night Joffrey opened the door.

"Dog! Clean up this mess!"

There was a lot of blood in the King's chamber. Much more than what he spotted in the mornings before the cleaners came in. The girl was tied to the bed posts. Her body limp, hanging from the bindings. He couldn't see movement in her chest. He couldn't see much of anything other than torn flesh.

He cut down the thick rope around her wrists. The girl fell like a broken doll onto the bed. He took off his cloak and wrapped her body in it. He would bury her in the same place where he buried all the little animals Joffrey had killed.

He made his way down the dark and narrow passages, racing the dawn. He needed to get to the secluded and unmarked graveyard before the light of day exposed the horror he was trying to conceal. The first ray of sunlight hit him just as he laid down his burden.

A tiny movement inside the blood-stained cloak made him cringe. He parted the wrapping. She couldn't be alive.

But she was.

What looked up at him from the cloak turned shroud was no longer a face. It was a tangle of ribbons of skin and exposed flesh. He placed the tip of his dagger on her sternum, where the heart was, and pushed. He put his palm over the blood gushing from a tiny heart, and felt its last faint beatings.

Then stillness.

Peace.

He wrapped the now crimson cloak around the girl, picked her up gently in his arms and laid her in the safety of the grave.

He didn't stick around to see the third major change. On the day his ship set sails for Braavos, the engagement between Sansa Stark and King Joffrey Baratheon was dissolved and the news of the King's betrothal to Margaery Tyrell was announced.

On the boat, Sandor Clegane looked at the Captain's compass. They were sailing away from the North. Something tugged at his heart.

The North. Winterfell.

His little wildling girl was probably married. Expecting her first babe already. He would be free for both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Almost there.

I hope it's not too confusing. I brought the action to the end of season 7, but some (if not most) of the things that happened on the show haven't happened yet.  
Broadly  
\- King's Landing and Winterfell (Lannisters and Starks) are locked in something of a cold war  
\- A Lannister is King (or Queen)  
\- Arya thinks that Sansa is married to Tyrion

* * *

I apologize for lifting a few lines from the show. I won't do it again. The words I want Arya and Sandor to tell one another haven't been written for these characters (but who knows, maybe Season 8 will not break my heart like Episode VIII did)

" **Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."**

― **Oscar Wilde**

* * *

 **Arya**

Jon hugged her tightly. She held him just as fiercely. They had nearly lost each other a dozen times in their missions over the Wall, and yet going south into Westeros seemed just as dangerous.

"I wish I could tell them you are safe."

Arya's face seemed carved in stone.

Three years earlier, when she was a brand new recruit, the guilt would have burned through her, and tears would have stung her eyes.

Two years earlier, after she had first seen her black brothers die and after she had killed the first women and children in one of the wildlings' raids, she would have only felt a pang of guilt.

Now, after facing an army of wights and seeing the Night King, she hardly felt anything other than a vague warmth in her chest when she thought about the family she had left behind.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me at Winterfell?"

"You know I can't. In King's Landing there's no one to know my face. Except Sansa, but she probably won't be at the meeting."

Would lady Sansa Lannister even recognize her sister under the tattered black cloak?

Jon pressed his forehead against hers. Arya closed her eyes. There was one other person in King's Landing who was at least an equal risk, but there was no point of telling her brother. And unlike the Imp's wife, the Hound was likely to be at the meeting.

"If Ser Jeor Mormont were alive, he'd have a better chance of getting through to the Lannisters. They might not forget that Ser Alliser Throne fought on House Targaryen's side during the Rebellion. If he fails, find Tyrion Lannister. He might be the only one to listen to you."

She nodded. No further than a few months earlier, she had believed that the White Walkers were stories to frighten children. They had to hope that the living dead would be enough to change the Lannisters' mindset about the war with the North.

She had to be on the delegation that took the wight to the Capital. She'd been in the ranging party that captured the wights. She was the fastest fighter in the entire Watch and she could handle close combat if they lost control of the dead. But mostly she was there for skill with the bow. She would be the one to shoot the obsidian arrow through it at the end of the demonstration.

"I'll do my part. You make sure Father believes you."

Her brother nodded. They shared a look full of hope that they would see each other again, but saying the words aloud invited bad luck. Too many brothers had died in recent months.

She watched Jon and Samwell Tarly load the casket containing a wight into their wagon and secure it. Sam sat next to the casket, and Jon mounted his horse.

On the other side of the courtyard, two men loaded an identical casket onto their wagon. Arry Snow, the smallest and fastest Ranger in the Night's watch took her place next to it.

Ser Alliser Thorne and the other men of the Night's Watched mounted their horses.

The Night's Watch was sending five men to go to Winterfell and ten men to King's Landing. Arya wondered if these fifteen would make a difference in case of an attack.

Part of her wanted to stay at Castle Black and face the next assault.

* * *

 **Sandor**

King's Landing bore the marks of the Battle of Blackwater. Sandor Clegane might have reacted to the sight of the fire ravaged walls, but Sandor Clegane was no more. The man getting off the ship was no one. He was over six feet tall and his wavy hair flows freely past his shoulders. The setting sun gives it a reddish hue and a gust of wind uncovers a few white streaks.

A street vendor smiles at his handsome face. The man smiles back. He is a stranger in this land, but he has a mission. The Many Faced God was promised a name and the man has to fulfill that promise.

It took him a few days of drinking with cutthroats in taverns, working alongside tanners and blacksmiths, and begging in the streets to get the information he needed. When he was done, the grimy beggar limped into a passageway and on the other side Jaqen H'ghar walked with his back straight and his face clean.

The man used the memories of Sandor Clegane to navigate the maze of streets in Flea Bottom. He looked up, toward the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's hill. He had caught the scent of his target, but he had to stalk it.

The man did not hurry. He would learn the rhythm of this strange city and at the right moment he would fulfill his contract.

A man had learned to wait.

* * *

 **Arya**

She took her position in one of the walls of the Dragonpit. She made sure she had a direct line of fire to the casket and its surroundings. She watched Ser Alliser and the others set the perimeter. The big men from the Night's Watch prepared themselves.

Arya was relieved to see that Sansa was not in attendance. And neither was the Hound. She wondered briefly about his fate, but when the demonstration was about to start, she pushed away all other thoughts. The future of their world depended on how persuasive their demonstration was going to be.

Ser Alliser and the others showed the effects of fire and dragonglass. Arya put the arrow back in her quiver when the wight was neutralized. As agreed, she returned to the inn where they were staying and waited for the others.

Although she had done a fair bit of waiting in the freezing lands behind the Wall, Arya wasn't good at it. She nursed her mug of ale, watching the world go by from her corner of the tavern until she heard the commotion outside.

She ran with her hand on the hilt of her sword. The men of the Night's Watch were under attack, in a widening circle of frightened people. White cloaks were swarming the plaza, but the most damage was done by a mountain of a man. Ser Alliser's last blow knocked the helmet from the man's head revealing monstrous scars. Ser Alliser was on one knee, struggling to get back up.

Without a thought for her safety, Arya jumped in front of the old ranger and parried the killing blow. It knocked her on her ass, but she jumped back to her feet and charged the monster. He swatted her aside as a mere nuisance and raised his sword again, but before he could strike, a dart whooshed through the air, straight into his neck. He toppled forward, almost crushing Ser Allaiser.

Arya looked around, but she saw no one who had thrown the dart.

* * *

 **Sandor**

When the highborns and their retinue left the Dragonpit, an old man with ragged clothes and an eye missing followed them.

They were too wrapped up in their important affairs to pay much attention to the beggar. Euron Greyjoy jerked his arm away from the dirty hand that dared to reach out to him. One of the beggar's fingers brushed the skin of Greyjoy's wrist before he fell to his knees. The piteous old man touched his forehead to the pavement. Euron kicked him hard with his steel boots as he passed by.

The beggar curled into a ball in a ditch. Unseen by human eyes, he took a small vial from the pouch around his neck and drank the blue liquid. The Many Faced God will have the death that was promised to him. The Long Farewell would make sure of it.

When the beggar stood up, he wore a different, more handsome face. He looked over the crowd with disinterested eyes. He knew these people like he knew this city. Vague memories of a man who was no one.

One memory though was not vague. One silhouette among all the others had crisp sharp edges. He followed it and watched it as it killed men in tattered black cloaks.

Another silhouette suddenly stood out from the ghostly scene in front of him. Even brighter than the monster, a slender figure stood before him. No one knew he should stay away. Sandor Clegane knew he had to kill one and protect the other. He threw a dart dipped in wolfsbane into his brother's neck and vanished in the crowd.

He was only a few steps away when his vision started to blurr. He steadied himself on the wall, and tried to find one of the safe places he had set up before darkness fell fully over his eyes. He knew the price one paid for taking a life that was not one's to take.

The City Watch arrested him and believing him drunk instead of blind, they gave him to someone who pushed him into a cart. When his vision came back, he was in a locked barred cell on the back of a wagon with two other men.

He tried to make sense of his surroundings and the people on the inside and on the outside of the bars. When they made camp, he addressed one of the young men who was gathering wood for the fire.

"Boy! Lovely boy!"

"What do you want?"

"A man has a thirst. A man does not drink for a day and a night. A boy could make a friend."


	6. Chapter 6

Small correction in Chapter 5 – after the meeting at the Dragonpits, "a man" gives the gift to his target. He doesn't have to go back to King's Landing to fulfill the contract and now we can have DisguisedArya / JaquenSandor interaction all the way to the end of the story. Because this is why we're all here, right?

Arya has a mouth on her :) I missed Sandor's curses and insults now that he's all Zen-assassin type of dude, so I made her be the grouchy potty mouth. This is a meeting of the masks.

* * *

 **Arya**

Ten men of the Night's Watch had marched south to King's Landing, holding a nightmare from the dawns of time in a wooden casket. Only two marched back north.

She had no particular love for Ser Alliser, but she respected the old Ranger. Even if he had her gather wood for the fire and fetch him water. His decision to take all the criminals and unfortunates they could recruit from King's Landing was a desperate measure, but what choice did they have at that point?

They had lost eight brothers on this mission in the very lands they were trying to protect. The Queen had thought it a plot from the North and sent the White Cloaks to kill them. If the Iron Throne believed that the Night's Watch was now under Stark control, they couldn't expect Lannister or Tyrell armies to help.

She looked at the new recruits. Some were green boys who had never held a sword. Others bore the marks of many fights. And then of course, there was the locked barred cell in the wagon. One of the three men in that cell did not belong there. Something about him was different. It was like an itch on the inside of her skull. She tried to ignore the thought.

He looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes. The small smile playing on his lips made him look like a nobleman travelling in a carriage, not a prisoner in a cell. She brought him water when he asked. She sent the fat boy with food for them. She sent the big strong boy they had bought from the blacksmith to make sure the bar of the cell were solid and the padlock was strong.

The Lannister soldiers hit their camp in the middle of the night. Arya made a habit of sleeping apart from everyone else to better protect her secret. When she woke up, everything was on fire. She saw Ser Alliser surrounded by Lannister soldiers. He was dead before she put an arrow in her bow.

The only chance she had was to run away. She kneeled and put her black cloak and next to the remains of some unlucky new recruits and her sword in one of the fires. Loyalty didn't reside in a cloak or a piece of steel. She had pledged her life to the Night's Watch for all the nights to come. She owed them to stay alive.

The prisoners from the wagon cried out for help. The man with red and white hair called to her.

"Boy! Sweet boy! Help us!"

She picked up the axe and ran toward them. She made eye contact with him for a brief moment before handing him the axe and running away. Whatever those three had done, she unleashed them upon the Lannisters.

She didn't stick around to see what happened to the other survivors. Her loyalty had died with Ser Alliser Thorne.

* * *

 **Sandor**

He'd known she was a girl from the first time he talked to her.

He bided his time in that cell, watching how the others set camp, watching the fields, villages and woods of Westeros as they made their way north up the King's Road. He observed the people in the camp, looking for answers and opportunities.

He heard the mocking laughter of Sandor Clegane somewhere deep inside. He had started his life wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard and he would end it wearing the black cloak of the Night's Watch. He could appreciate the irony.

When the wagon caught fire, Sandor Clegane screamed from his depths. The Hound no longer appreciated the irony of ending his life in the very fire he feared so much. On the outside, the mask was still intact. He saw her across the camp. Even that night, she stood apart from everyone else, as if she was the only real person in the world.

They locked gazes when she gave him the axe.

He knew who she was.

And then she vanished.

His old bloodlust rose in him and for the first time in years, he had to fight it down. He would not steal from the Many-Faced God. He ran and just like Arya Stark, he vanished.

Arya Stark. A man did not know Arya Stark. The Hound knew her, and the Hound was barking and pulling at his chain, trying to break the bonds set on him in the House of Black and White.

She had saved his life and those of the other two who would have died in the flames. She had stolen from the Many-Faced God. A man had to balance the scale. He would find Arya Stark and take three lives at her order.

He ran, he hid, he ran again. He wore another face when he arrived at the nearest village. And another one after that. But when he sat down at her table, he was wearing Lannister armor and the handsome face she knew. He was surprised how easy it had been to find her. As if something was drawing him toward her.

* * *

 **Arya**

The prisoner from the burning wagon sat across from her. For a big man, he was disconcertingly stealthy. Or maybe she hadn't been concentrating on the room as well as she should have.

"A man owes a life debt," he said.

She nodded, unable to feel anything. She was probably glad he was alive. All things being equal, she would prefer him to be alive than dead for no other reason that his courtesy and his beautiful eyes. But she didn't need his help, and she did not desire his company.

"You are called Arry Snow," he said.

"Fuck off," she said and took another swig of ale.

"This man has the honor of to be Jaqen H'ghar".

"Are you slow? Fuck off," she said again.

Life in the Night's Watch and the need for secrecy had limited her vocabulary to curse words. His eyes were uncomfortably trained on her. The safety of her disguise rested a lot on people not looking carefully. So often people didn't see what was right in front of them. It didn't seem to be the case with this man. She had to distract his attention.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"You saved three lives. Three deaths are owed. Speak the names and a man will restore balance."

"What kind of stupid shite is that? Balance? Owed? To whom?"

"To the Many-Faced God."

"Who's that fucker then?"

"He is the one I serve."

She rolled her eyes. Another religious nutter. As if they didn't have their hands full with the Sparrows in King's Landing who took the Faith of the Seven to a whole new level of crazy and the servants of the Lord of Light who burned people to serve their Red God.

"Then go. Serve. Leave me the fuck alone."

"A boy is alone. A man will travel the same path until the debt is paid."

She was about to bark at him some more insults when a group of thugs entered the tavern. She would have attracted their attention if she had drunk alone. They were the type of men who preyed on the weak. Maybe having a travelling companion wouldn't be too bad after all. But all she knew about this man was that he was a criminal.

"You wear Lannister colors."

"A boy lost his black cloak."

Arya clenched her jaw. So, they were both survivors.

"Don't you care where I'm going?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Any name I give you, you will kill them?"

"A boy only needs to give a name, and a man will take care of it."

There was one name she wanted to speak already. One name that would end the Great War. What was the point of telling this stranger about the threat from beyond the Wall? Most likely he was a sellsword who overestimated his skills. She shook her head and addressed a small matter that was beginning to get on her nerves.

"For fuck's sake can you stop talking like that?"

A flicker of confusion passed over his features. Maybe that was the only he could speak the common tongue. His features, the way he moved… she didn't even know if he was Westerosi.

"Where are you from?"

"The Free City of Lorath."

For the briefest moment, Arya was tempted to say "lie". She shook her head. She didn't know anything about Lorath. She knew hardly anything about any of the free cities. Her dreams of Braavos had died frozen beyond the Wall.

"Well, try to speak like you're from the Westerlands as long as you wear… that," she said.

* * *

 **Sandor**

He nodded. The Westerlands. Casterly Rock. Keep Clegane. He would be letting go of part of his mask if he let go of the speaking pattern of the Faceless Men. He was no one. If he became someone again, the Hound would be reborn. The Hound had done enough damage to this world.

"Where are we going?" he asked when they mounted their horses.


	7. Chapter 7

_At the point in the story when_

 _\- Cersei is queen,_

 _\- Joffrey was poisoned by Oleana Tyrell at his wedding_

 _\- Tyrion and Sansa were accused of the murder and had fled King's Landing_

 _\- Danaerys is about to cross the Narrow Sea_

 _\- Jon is making a name for himself in the Night's Watch - he brokered an accord with the Wildlings and he's being elected Lord Commander_

* * *

 **Sandor**

"North," she said.

He pursed his lips. It didn't actually matter to him where they were going. He would follow her to the edge of the world, and beyond.

They rode in silence for many miles. Then for many days. The girl seemed to have forgotten his existence, but he caught her studying him more than once when they made camp. He let her watch, pretending not to notice. He could understand why she liked this face. It was one of his favorites. So many things came easy to beautiful people.

In life, the man whose face he wore had been a killer as vicious as the Hound himself, but put them next to each other, and one would seem an angel, the other a beast. He had to hope the journey with this woman of the Night's Watch would not end up with him having to retire this face from use in Westeros. He'd had enough of a famous face the first time around.

The hair though… he could do something about the long red and white hair. He didn't need it to be so long since he no longer needed to hide the burns. He could ask her to cut it if he trusted her with a blade so close to his neck.

They ran into trouble at an inn. They walked in while a band of brigands were robbing the place. He'd earned her respect by dispatching of the men efficiently. She'd hardly had to use her blade. The strange little smile playing on her lips at the end was all the reward he needed.

#

The further north they went, the colder it got. It didn't take long for the first snow to fall on them. Winter had come. He pulled the heavy tighter around his shoulders.

"You can go back," she said.

"A man has a debt to pay."

She rolled her eyes. Didn't she know how feminine she looked when she did that?

"Speak normally," she said in a flat tone.

He spurred his horse onward, tearing his eyes from her. His gaze got caught on her lips too often. How long had he been without a woman? He had to do something about all this unhealthy tension bottling inside his body. Sooner rather than later. The next whorehouse they found, he'd pay them a visit.

"There is no one around. A man can speak freely."

"A man is quite annoying when he does that," she said. "We should look for a place to make camp. There's a storm brewing."

They agreed on a place, and fell into the routine of gathering wood, making the fire, securing the horses. They shared bread, smoked meat and wine. He watched her precise, elegant movements. She even licked her fingers like a lady. How had she gotten away with her disguise? Were the men of the Night's Watch blind?

The cold was seeping into his bones. He arranged his bedding on the other side of the fire from hers. The image of her face through the curtain of flames was the last thing he took with him into the land of dreams.

His senses alerted him to the presence. His hand gripped the hilt of her dagger when she spoke.

"Get back to sleep, idiot."

He became aware of the unexpected warmth against his back. A warm body was pressed against his under the covers.

"Why are you-"

"You were freezing," she interrupted him. "We're conserving body heat this way. But I'll move away if you have a problem with it."

"No," he said immediately. "Lucky I didn't kill you, that's all."

She snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that," she said, patting him patronizingly on his thigh before settling her arm along his back.

He tried to relax, but knowing that he was being spooned by a girl ramped up the tension that kept gathering inside. She buried her face in his neck. Her steady breath tickled his skin. He should have visited every fucking whorehouse since King's Landing to whatever the fuck place they were that night. If he got through the night without doing something stupid, he would do just that for the rest of the journey.

She let out a soft sigh and he bravely fought the urge to turn around and hold her for a full heartbeat.

* * *

 **Arya**

She had checked that her breasts were wrapped securely before moving her bedding next to his. After doing it every morning for so long, she had perfected the method to conceal her breasts without squeezing them uncomfortably hard. She was certain that he wasn't feeling anything out of the ordinary while she plastered herself along his back. Even when her nipples hardened and ached… because of the cold.

It felt so right to be close to him. She had caught glimpses of his body while he changed clothes. Accidentally at first, driven by curiosity later. She licked her lips and sighed at the memory of the broad chest and well-muscled arms. She began to doubt the wisdom of her decision to get so close when the big man turned around.

He pulled her close and wrapped a massive arm around her shoulders. Her breath stopped, and her fingers twitched, as if compelled to untuck his tunic, to unlace his pants… She had a very vague notion of what came after that. She knew enough to name the hunger that took over her body.

Lust.

She panicked.

'Imagine it's Jon. Imagine it's Jon.'

"This reminds me of my brother," she said without thinking. "He still feels he has to take watch over me."

"He's a good brother," Jaqen said.

"He's a good man," she said.

Her mind skittered, grasping for something to say to stop from feeling. She thought about another good man who had watched over her one night, a lifetime ago. That had been the first time she'd reacted like that to another person. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was him. She started rambling in an attempt to drown her body's demands with memories.

"You remind me of someone else, too. He was as tall and strong as you. Everyone who saw him, was instantly terrified by him. Just because of the way he looked. Anyone who fought him… didn't live to fear him."

"I remind you of someone who terrified you?"

"I wasn't afraid. The first time I saw him… People around me whispered that he looked like a monster. I thought he was fascinating. When I got to know him a little, he made me feel safe. Like I could never get hurt while he was around. Just like Jon."

"Who was he?"

"The only one aside from my brother who ever believed in me. Who thought that the Night's Watch has an important mission. He's one of the reasons I took the Black. He was the only person I wanted to see in King's Landing. And worried that he might see me."

She shouldn't have said it. Any of it. How much wine had she drunk with dinner? Too much wine by the looks of things, and too little dinner. First she'd warmed up with lust, now she was getting carried away by nostalgia.

"Why? Didn't you think he might want to see you, too?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He's probably dead anyway."

Her heart ached at the thought of the Hound, dead at the order of the bitch queen, or of the odious Joffrey to whom he'd been as loyal as any dog. She wondered if she should give Jaqen the first name. Cersei. The bitch queen was the reason poor Sansa was in hiding.

No. No names that night. She'd think about revenge once the Great War was over. If Jaqen was as good at killing as he seemed, she had one name for him, but not yet. She wouldn't take advantage of a promise made out of a weirds sense of honor until he saw the truth behind the Wall for himself.

She forgot herself for a moment, and she drew even closer to him. The expanse of his chest, so much like the Hound's. Her heart skipped a beat when his arm tightened around her shoulders. She felt oddly safe, and fought to stay awake, unwilling to lose the sensation.

* * *

 **Sandor**

"Let's get some sleep," he said, holding her close.

Easier said than done. Her breathing didn't seem to slow down either. They'd have to leave soon. They needed sleep. He needed respite from the temptation.

He hadn't dared to believe that she remembered him fondly, but to find out he had such an impact on her life. Her talk of Braavos and freedom had sparked the hope in him. His talk of duty had pushed her to the most dangerous place in the known world.

And yet, beyond all such concerns, he still had to solve the pressing issue of sleeping with a beautiful woman in his arms.

A beautiful woman who had compared him to her brother. He shouldn't fool himself. The girl clearly had created an idealized image of him in her mind. Another brother. She didn't know the horrors he had done in the Lannisters' service, or she'd feel different about him.

He tried to find an appropriate place to rest his hand. He settled on the rounded curve of her hip, but instead of relaxing into comfortable sleep, he was stiffening. Everywhere.

Next whorehouse. He would go in and spend enough time and money to ensure that something like this would never happen again.


	8. Chapter 8

Arya thinks of Sandor as Jaqen as this point, so in her sections, I referred to him as Jaqen. Personally, I can't wait for him to take that face off. I miss the Hound.

* * *

 **Arya**

She startled awake patting the empty bedding, looking for the warm body that had been there all night. She missed the man's comforting bulk, the feel of muscles and bones, the heartbeat loud like war drums.

Shit! He was up before her. She'd have to sneak away to take care of her morning routine, including re-wrapping the cloth around her chest.

Slow, heavy footsteps crunched the thin layer of snow. Jaqen was lacing up his pants as he came back toward the dying embers of their campfire. Her eyes lingered on his body, the sight of his massive frame stirring the dull ache between her legs. She dug her fingernails in her palms to stop from screaming in frustration at her own carelessness.

Stupidly she had allowed this stranger to sneak under her skin. To bring to the surface sensations that needed to stay buried.

She had lived among men for three years and she knew more about male anatomy than she ever imagined she would. There were some good looking men in the Night's Watch, but Arya had been vigilant to always think of all men as potential threats. If any of them got any ideas about her sex, the consequences would be dire.

For the first time, she understood the complaints of her brothers in Castle Black. She had always thought unkindly of those who talked about bedding women. She had considered them weak for missing sex. If sexual desire could be so strong just after being in someone's arms, how bad did it feel when you actually knew what you were missing?

Under the blanket, she checked her chest, maybe a bit more leisurely than she should. Her nipples, erect from the cold, were sensitive to the point of pain. If he would just leave for a moment, go tend on the horses or something, she could massage her breasts, get rid of that infernal tickling sensation. But he didn't.

They didn't talk all morning, which suited her just fine. At noon, they ate as they rode on in the thickly falling snow. The sight of a small town came as a relief to Arya.

"We're staying at the inn. Let's not kill anyone, all right?"

"Aye," he said, and followed her through the gates.

She couldn't wait to have her own room for one night. To wash her body in warm water. To sleep in a bed, without wrapping herself up and without the fear that any parts of her body would betray what she was. Jaqen's eyes were not only beautiful, but also sharp. Sharper than she was comfortable with.

Just her luck that the blizzard had gathered so many travelers in the inn, that despite having the coin for two rooms, the inn keeper only gave them one room.

* * *

 **Sandor**

He would have been more upset about the fairly narrow bed in their room if he didn't already have plans to spend the night in the whorehouse. Arya on the other hand, looked decidedly unhappy.

"A man will not come back to the room after dinner," he said.

"A man will sleep in the stable, with the horses?" she asked.

"Close enough," he said.

She scrunched her face in puzzlement. It took her a few seconds to work it out. The blush blossoming on her cheeks made his cock twitch. Maybe he should skip dinner altogether. She took a long sip of wine from the flask to hide her embarrassment.

"You're welcome to partake," he said.

Her eyes widened and she choked on the wine. Embarrassment and anger flickered on her features while she coughed.

"It's a long road the Wall," he said. "A boy should take warmth when he finds it."

He wondered why he teased her. As payback for making him want her without even knowing?

"The men of the Night's Watch are sworn-"

"To take no wife and father no children," he interrupted her. "None of those things are likely to happen in a brothel."

Her grey eyes grew cold as he said the words of the Night's Watch oath. He knew the words. On his darkest hours in King's Landing, when he was guarding the door to a monster, he had thought about atoning for his sins on the Wall.

"Enjoy yourself," she said in a flat tone he hadn't heard from the first days of their journey.

"Dinner?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not hungry."

He bowed his head in the Braavosi fashion, and closed the door behind him.

It couldn't be easy for her to pretend to be a boy all the time. Sandor Clegane had been eager to get rid of the Hound and become no one. Arya Stark… Maybe one day he would find out why Arya Stark had chosen a life of sacrifice instead of her highborn birthright.

Maybe one day she would trust him enough, to tell him. Or maybe she would always fear what men who knew would do with that information. Just because he wouldn't take her without her consent, didn't mean he wouldn't take her if she offered herself to him. And he would certainly make it easy for her to offer. He had learned much more in Braavos than intricate ways to kill people.

* * *

 **Arya**

She barred the door as soon as he left and moved to draw herself a bath. The maid had left buckets of warm water by the fire.

Why would she care if he went to a whorehouse? She should have been more suspicious that he hadn't done it before. She hadn't heard him pleasuring himself either. The gods knew that after three years of nights sleeping in the same room with horny men, she could recognize the sound of men handling themselves.

She lowered her body in the tub, and scrubbed herself efficiently. She cursed herself for suddenly being unable to enjoy the solitude and explore her female parts as she had planned. She toweled herself briskly and put her clothes back on before climbing into bed. Instead of playing with herself, she tried to get to sleep. She felt tired, but also inexplicably cold in the well heated room.

Just as she was drifting to sleep, Arya startled awake at the noise of a struggle outside her door. She put on her tunic, grabbed her sword and went out into the corridor. The drunken laughter and singing from downstairs almost covered the muffled whimpers.

"Please, Ser, let me go. Plea-"

The sound of a slap cut short the girl's words.

Arya went straight to the source of the voice. A big man was pushing a girl against the wall. Her legs were spread and her skirts up. She was trying to wriggle out, to push him away, but the brute didn't seem to feel her punches. Arya heard the sound of cloth tearing and she hit him hard with the hilt of her sword at the back of his head. He groaned, but, unfortunately, he didn't fall unconscious.

He turned around, his cock flopping out of his breeches. His bloodshot eyes focused on her. He swiped on meaty paw to push away her sword, but Arya avoided it with a light flick of her wrist. The point of her thin blade was under his round belly and close to his cock.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. This is how accidents happen, you know."

"Go away, boy, and I might let you live."

He tried to swat her sword again, and Arya made another circle with the blade, this time the point resting on his shriveling cock.

"Next time you do that, I might cut some of it off. And it's not like you have much to begin with."

The man lunged at her in anger. Arya took a step back, and another one, drawing him further away from the trembling girl. She had to make sure this didn't escalate to a physical brawl. All her training with the sword, bow or hunting knife wouldn't help her in a close combat situation with a man twice her size.

"I'm going to shove that so far up your ass-."

"I don't know about you," she interrupted him. "But I don't swing that way."

He made another attempt to get to her. She tried to see his colors, or a crest on his clothes. In how much trouble would she be if she killed this guy?

She took small steps backwards, luring him closer to the stairwell. When she judged he was in the right spot, she looked at his crotch with wide eyes.

"Fuck, what happened to your dick?"

Predictably, he looked down, and Arya kicked him down the stairs, but he grabbed her foot and she tumbled along with him. She let the sword fall out of her hand on the top landing to avoid any serious injury to either of them. The noisy common room grew quiet, all eyes trained on the two of bodies crash landing into a table.

Just her luck, the fat fuck had landed on top of her. He was dazed from the fall, and probably from Arya's first blow because his movements were sluggish. He put his forearm on her windpipe and was about to punch her when Arya's knee connected with his balls. He whimpered and rolled off her partially to curl into a ball.

She was trying to free her legs from under him when she saw a boot she knew pushing the man all the way off her. She took Jaqen's hand and got up.

The common room seemed to have come alive again, and the two of them were at the center of an angry mob.

"What's going on here?" the innkeeper broke through the circle of people.

"They attacked me," the fat man bellowed. "You all saw it!"

Some of the inn's patrons unsheathed their swords. Arya cursed for letting go of her sword. She was about to reach for the dagger Jaqen always carried a dagger on his right hip. Like the Hound. The thought flickers through her mind. Before she reaches for the dagger, a girl's voice breaks the tense silence.

"Don't hurt them. He tried to force himself on me, and the boy saved me."

The throng parted and a girl not much older than Arya, with her arms wrapped over her torn shirt, ran into the arms of one of the men.

Arya and Jaqen melted away upstairs as the common room split into sides. This was not their fight.

* * *

 **Sandor**

She bent down to pick up her sword then hurried into their room. The back of her shirt was spotted with blood. She must have fallen on some glass or splinters.

He was furious.

"You got back early," she said.

One more reason to be furious. He had found the brothel, but he never went inside. Maybe it was his time in Braavos, where he had lost the habit of paying for sex. The women there hadn't been bothered by his scars. Former slaves or women born free, most of them bore their own scars and their eyes were not offended by his disfigurement.

Even if that was the reason, and he was not willing to look deeper into that, his body didn't care. The pent up sexual frustration was doubled when he came back to the inn and saw Arya on the floor.

"You're hurt," he said.

"What? Oh, the back. They're just scratches."

"Fine. Scratches. Let me clean them."

"No need. I'll do it myself," she said.

"They're on your back!"

He heard the sound of his old voice when he said that. He had let anger bring the Hound to the surface. He tried to calm down.

"You realize you drew attention to us. They will start asking questions."

"We'll have to leave during the night," she said.

He nodded. He was not happy to be on the road while it snowed.

"I couldn't let the girl be raped," she said.

Her tone was between excuse and defiance.

"You could have been raped, too," he said. "You didn't know what kind of men were downstairs."

She had stopped breathing. He hung his head. He couldn't wait for her to open up about it.

"I know you're a girl," he said. "I've know it since I got my sight back, in the wagon."

"I'm not a girl," she said.

"No? Take off your clothes," he challenged her.

"You take off your clothes," she said defiantly.

He raised an eyebrow, but he stood up, and started taking them off. Tunic. Undershirt. Her eyes saucered and he stopped with his hand on the lace of his pants.

"Your turn," he said.

"Fine. I'm a girl," she said. "And I'm in the Night's Watch. What will you do about it?"

"I'll clean your wounds," he said.

He put his clothes back on and he sat down next to her on the bed. She turned her back to him and pulled up the hem of her shirt. He replaced her hands with his, and pulled the shirt up gently, careful not to shift the bits of glass and wood embedded in her skin.

He worked in silence, removing all the shards and splinters. He added balm over her wounds and pulled her shirt back down once he was done. Best thing for healing was to leave such wounds uncovered. He would dress them before they left, so that they didn't open up while riding.

"How can I trust you with this secret?" she asked, with her back to him.

He had to give up his own secret in return. He was about to speak when they heard the urgent knock on the door. He opened the door and saw the man whose daughter Arya had saved earlier. He stepped aside, and the man walked in.

"My name is Adrew Varner. I didn't get a chance to thank you for saving my daughter, Elayna, earlier. I am a merchant from the Reach. I sell grains all over the Seven Kingdoms. Wherever you need to get, I have a transport going there."

He looked at Arya, wondering what she would say. She hadn't even told him that their final destination was the Wall, although it had to be. Could they trust this stranger?


	9. Chapter 9

**Arya**

Compared to the first part of their journey, they were in the lap of luxury. They sat in the back of the cart transporting grains up north. The furthest north point in Adrew Varner's routes ended at the Twins.

They had many days until they got to Frey territory, but the name alone gave Arya chills. She should be a Frey by marriage. She should have given birth to a child or two already.

"I want to trade a name for my secret," she said.

Jaqen raised his eyes from polishing his blade. A carefree smile played on his lips, and sparkled in his beautiful, dangerous eyes. He shook his head.

"Only death can pay for life, sweet girl."

She concealed the shiver that went through her when he called her that. No trace of mockery in his voice. She steeled her heart. She was no sweet girl any more.

"A name then," she said slowly.

"Give a name. Any name."

He said it with a quiet confidence that did more for Arya than a solemn vow on the gods. She didn't like to do it, but he forced her hand. She leaned toward him as if to whisper the name. He mirrored her movement.

"Jaqen H'ghar."

He froze.

"Don't joke, girl. You owe three deaths to the Many-Faced God."

She shook her head. "I'm not joking. I am asking you to kill yourself."

"Unname me," he said.

"No."

"Please."

That was what she waited for. When it comes to death, all men bargain.

"I'll unname you," she said. "If you promise to forget I am a girl."

"This, I cannot do. But I can promise I will never reveal your secrets to anyone."

Secrets. What else did he know about her?

"Agreed," she said. "A girl is dead. You only owe me two more names."

He nodded solemnly, and leaned back.

"Why don't you say them?" he asked lazily. "I know you have them."

"Because it wouldn't be fair. One may be unkillable. The other… is not important until the Great War ends."

"No one is unkillable."

"What do you know about what lies beyond the Wall, Jaqen H'ghar?"

* * *

 **Sandor**

Jaqen H'ghar shrugged his broad shoulders. A Lorathi wasn't supposed to know much about it. Sandor Clegane knew the old stories. Wildlings. Wargs. White walkers.

The days before killing his target in King's Landing, he'd heard rumors on the streets about a delegation from the Night's Watch bringing troublesome news to the Queen. After a meeting with the Queen, the white cloaks had been sent to kill the men of the Night's Watch. Trouble surrounded the girl, and he could sense she was heading into even worse danger. He had known all that when he chose to accompany the little direwolf.

Something terrible was happening north of the Wall and the Night's Watch had been desperate enough to send men instead of ravens to plead their case in front of the Iron Throne.

"What are you not telling me?"

She shook her head and sighed.

"You wouldn't believe it. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

He put his hand under her chin and tilted her head so that he could look her in the eyes.

"I will believe you. And I will kill the unkillable for you. Tell me."

If he had hoped to see warmth in those grey eyes, he would have been disappointed. There was only steely resolve. But maybe also a spark of trust.

"There is an army of the dead preparing to march south of the Wall. The Night's Watch cannot defeat it. All the armies of the living, if they worked together might stand a chance. My brothers and I came to the Iron Throne to get help. We failed. I'm going back to the Wall to die at my post. It's all I can still do out of everything I swore. I shouldn't have allowed you to come with me. "

That sounded like a warrior's death. A death that would make up for some of the horrors of his past.

"Give me the name," he said.

She looked up at him. "You don't understand. You can't kill that thing."

"Give me the name," he repeated.

"The Night King."

* * *

 **Arya**

She regretted it as soon as she said it.

"No, I take-"

He put a finger on her lips. He shook his head and the sadness in his eyes seemed painfully familiar. She pushed his hand aside. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb along her jaw.

"You said three names," she whispered. "I still have one left."

The man nodded.

"I forbid you to die until I give you the third name."

He smiled, but he bowed his head.

"You drive a hard bargain, my lady."

"I'm no lady, Ser."

"I'm no Ser."

She had heard those words. That very same intonation. He was dead. She knew it in her heart that Sandor Clegane was no more or nothing would have stopped him from meeting her in King's Landing.

At the first inn they stopped, they heard rumors of the wedding at the twins. Lord Stark's youngest son was going to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters. Did that mean that Jon had failed? Would her parents waste time arranging Rickon's wedding if they knew about the threat?

The Stark-Frey wedding was the talk of the countryside. She would be so close to her family. Could she take the time out of her journey to see them one last time?

No. She would stay on the Kingsroad and go further north. She looked longingly after the cart as it moved away.

* * *

 **Sandor**

Travelling in that wagon had been a good way for both of them to rest and recover. He would need all his strength to take on an indestructible monster who commanded and army of undead. He wondered if the Red God would give him the strength to win or if he was destined to join the ranks of the wight army.

She never offered her body's warmth again. They bought heavier furs, and always slept at inns or managed to talk people into sheltering them for the night.

Sometimes when his eyes lingered on her, Arya tensed and shrunk and found reason to walk out of his sight. He raked his brain how to put her at ease, how to make her believe he would not force himself on her. He would never do that, but how different was the fact that he desired her? His desire was a sign that she could not fully trust him not to betray her secret.

They would reach the Wall soon enough. She would be safe from him once he went after the Night King.

The morning after they passed Moat Cailin, she was gone. Her horse and her few belongings were still there. He saw the signs of the struggle further in the woods. Saw the blood. He saw the dead man in a clearing. He ran with his sword drawn, his heart freezing at the sight of blood on the leaves.

"Girl!"

"Where are you?"

"Arya!"

He ran, frantic, blinded by panic, fearing that the next thing he saw up the bloody trail would be her body. Instinct alone made him stop. The tip of a sword grazed his neck. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arya at the other end of that sword.

"Who are you?"

He nicked himself on the blade when he turned to look at her. She had some cuts and bruises, her clothes bore the marks of a struggle, but she was alive.

"I asked you who you are," she said coldly. "How do you know that name?"

"Your name," he said.

She let her blade slide down without touching his neck, scratching the leather of his tunic as it moved further down, until its point rested over his heart. In his panic, he hadn't put on his armor. One determined push, and he would be dead.

"Yes. My name," she said. "I'll ask you one last time. Who are you?"

"It's easier if I show you," he said.

He hadn't done it in the sight of another living person before. Except the Kindly Man, and Sandor wasn't quite sure the Kindly man counted as a living person.

"I've done so many evil things… I need to bring balance back to this world."


	10. Chapter 10

Arya

He knew her name.

She kept her sword aimed at him, wishing she'd be yards away aiming an arrow at him. From what she'd seen of Jaqen, she wouldn't best him in a fight in her condition. One of the attackers she fought earlier had slashed her back while she was fighting another bastard.

That was not a good moment to lose trust in Jaqen. She faced him without flinching, aware that in a few moments the blood would start dripping off her clothes into the snow. She would have to kill him before he had the chance to see how weak she was. She couldn't imagine that anything he would show her would make her trust him again.

The man moved slowly, keenly away of her blade. He dug his fingers underneath his jaw and…

Arya gasped despite herself.

She looked from Sandor Clegane's face to the shriveled skin in his hand. She gripped the hilt of her sword convulsively. She should kill this shapeshifting thing, whatever it was. Although… his shape hadn't shifted. His body, which had reminded her of the Hound from the beginning of their journey, remained the same. He looked… complete.

"What kind of magic is this?" she asked.

"Braavosi magic."

His voice. Arya's soul reacted at the sound of his voice. This creature knew her weaknesses too well. She should kill it.

"I thought you were Lorathi," she said.

Why was she talking to it? He would see the blood soon, and pounce on her.

"I am Sandor Clegane," he said. "Born in Keep Clegane in 271 AC. I became no one in Braavos in year 300. And if it weren't for you, Arya Stark, I'd still be no one."

No one? What did that mean? In year 300, she'd joined the Night's Watch. Her vision blurred, and she passed out before she could ask do anything else.

Sandor

He waited for her to make up her mind. He could all but see her decision to kill him in her cold grey eyes. When she suddenly collapsed, he caught her in his arms. The blood seeped through his sleeve. He hadn't even noticed she was hurt.

He carried her to their campsite and gently laid her face down on the blanket. His experience in the House of Black and White made him more adept at dealing with wounds than a Maester from the Citadel. He cleaned the ugly cut, thankful that she was passed out so she didn't feel the pain. He stitched the wound as fast as he could, so he'd be done by the time she came around.

She started to stir when he applied the balm over her skin. Its regenerative properties would speed up the healing.

"What are you?" she asked.

"I am a Faceless Man. You must have read about them in the book you kept inside the chair, in your secret reading spot."

She shrugged, and hissed in pain.

"You have his memories. Impressive."

"I am Sandor Clegane."

"Very good. You can do his voice, too."

"I'm not a thing impersonating a man," he said. "These are my memories, my voice, my body. I'm here, with you. Flesh and blood. "

She looked at him coldly. For weeks he had shown her another face, spoken to her in another different voice. No wonder she didn't believe him.

"I'm not asking you to believe me," he said. "If you wish, I will leave. And after I pay my second debt, I'll come back to you for the third name."

It hurt to make that promise. Despite his training, and his vows, he had grown attached to her. Much more than he allowed himself to admit. He wanted to protect her for as long as he could. The thought of Arya Stark riding north all by herself was more than he could stand. But if she commanded it, he would leave her side.

Arya

Could it really be him?

When he spoke of his debt, she realized that in one regard, it didn't matter. She had set him an impossible task. Whatever he was, if he went after the Night King alone, he would die.

"I want to take the name back," she said.

"The name was given. The Many-Faced God expects the Night King."

She thought back at what she knew about the Faceless Men.

"Your god is Death. And death comes to us all. Your god will have the Night King, even if you're not the one to give him the gift."

He bowed his head.

"All men must die. And all men must serve. The contract was accepted."

"Why do you have to be so stubborn? You will die north of the Wall."

"Why do you care? You don't even believe I'm Sandor Clegane."

Arya looked into the flames, considering his question. Her heart wanted to believe it was really him.

"Whatever you are, I don't want your death on my conscience. But if I can't stop you, and you want to go north, we can ride together."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she said. "I'm not doing you any favors. I'm going back because I took an oath."

She closed her eyes, and thought about Braavos.

Sandor

He had squandered her trust, but she still took him with her. Things north of the Wall must truly be desperate. A shadow seemed to float over her delicate features.

"Tell me about Braavos," she said, with her eyes closed.

He wished they were back in that cave where they had taken shelter from the storm. He wished he could feel her body relax next to his. He wanted her trust back, and he would do anything to earn it. He would start by telling her about his time in Braavos if that was what she wanted.

"It was just like you said. A city of free people. I could sense that in everything around me. As soon as I got off the ship, in Ragman Harbor, until the day I took the Canal of Heroes to get to the House of Black and White, everywhere I looked, I saw free people. The city is made up of hundreds of little islands. You can move between them by boat, through channels, or walk over stone bridges. They always have fresh fish and all sorts of other tiny sea animals I didn't even know existed. You can get fresh cockles from the vendors in the morning. You can go to tavern every day for a month, and never be served the same dish twice. Their ale is terrible, but the ships bring good Dornish wine."

She drew her blanket tighter around herself. He went to her and added his cloak over hers.

"Stay," she said. "It's so cold."

He moved his bedding next to hers, and, to his surprise, Arya raised the blanket to make room for him. She burrowed her head in his chest, and Sandor put an arm over her shoulders, careful not to touch the wound on her back.

"Everyone is accepted there. Braavos doesn't judge a man's past. Runaway slaves from Mereen and disgraced Westerosi noblemen, they can start a new life there. I walked those streets and people were not frightened or disgusted by my scars. Many of them wore signs of their former lives. They walked around with missing ears, or nose, or even limbs. I was just like them. I even got my hair cut there. Didn't need to hide that ugly part of me. Giving up my armor was more difficult. But the weather was hot, and it was much easier to move without it. I even learned Water Dancing, like you were practicing in the yard."

"Keep your armor on while you're here," she said, pressing her cheek against his chest. "Fighting in the snow is about endurance, not skill."

"I lived through nine winters," he said. "I fought a few battles while it snowed."

"Winter in the Seven Kingdoms is not the same as what's is like north of the Wall. Please don't take it lightly."

He heard a twang of desperation in her voice. Could she possibly care about him? She spoke as if she heard his thoughts.

"There are only two sides in this War. The living, and the dead. You have a heartbeat, and that's all that matters now."

She fell asleep in his arms, leaving him to ponder if his whole life's training had adequately prepared him for the contract he had taken.

In the end, it didn't matter.

'Valar dohaeris.'

#

The next day, during their ride, the wound on her back opened. He put his arms on her waist and got her down from her horse. They were too close to Winterfell to risk stopping in any villages until her wound heal. He opened the map, and traced the Kingsroad from where they were toward the Wall.

"I never intended to follow the Kingsroad all the way to the North," she said without looking at the map. "I planned to cross the White River, then the Weeping Water south enough from the Dreadfort not to run into the Boltons, then go up the Last River to the Last Hearth, and then get back onto the Kingsroad in the New Gift."

He trailed his finger over the map while she spoke. That would keep them far from Winterfell, but being off the Kingsroad meant harsh travelling conditions.

"We're close to the White Harbor," he said. "We can take a ship all the way to the Wall. Your wound will have time to heal."

She was as pale as the snow falling incessantly from the sky. She must have been in a great deal of pain because she appeared to consider his words.

"White Harbor is the seat of House Manderly," she said. "Not very likely that anyone there might recognize me."

"It will be difficult to find a ship that goes far north, but we'll manage," he said.

"Enough gold will take care of that. I can pay for a ship to take us to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

He looked at her surprised, and curious. "I didn't know the Night's Watch pays so well."

Arya reached inside her cloak, and threw a bag at him. He recognized it as soon as he caught it. The gold he had given her before leaving Winterfell.

He folded the map, fighting the urge to pull her into a bear hug that would crack her bones and open the wound on her back even worse. He handed her back the gold.

Arya moved to get back on her horse, but Sandor stopped her holding her hand.

"I wish you had come south," he said. "To me."

He expected her to pull her hand away. Maybe even to slap him for his insolence. But whatever she had been through on the Wall, there was nothing left of her highborn education.

"I wish that, too," she said.

She was honest, but Sandor realized it was desperation, not trust that made her open up. They were going toward a battel she didn't believe they could win.

"You should ride with me," he said.

Arya nodded. "Until we get close to White Harbor," she said.

He got on his horse, and picked her up carefully. He sat her across the back of the horse, supporting her back gently with his left arm, while he kept the reins of her horse in his right hand. She made herself as comfortable as possible against his heavy armor.

In his youth, he had laughed at the ballads which spoke of beautiful ladies rescued by knights with pure hearts. The current situation proved him right. The beautiful lady in his arms was no helpless maiden. And his heart was far from being pure.

By nightfall, they had reached White Harbor. Arya's gold bought them passage on a ship that would take them in the morning all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.


	11. Chapter 11

**Masks and Maiden are sort of merging into the same story.**

Masks is an alternative history, going off rails straight from the first episode, but it also ends with Arya and Sandor on their way to completing a dangerous mission. The difference here is how they deal with their proximity and their intense mutual desire. It goes toward the "idiots in love" trope, and it will have a different outcome than Maiden

Maiden takes on the story after the end of season 7, but it's also about Arya and Sandor on their way to completing a dangerous mission. They act on their sexual attraction, but the end will be different than Masks.

 **Unfortunately, I'm running out of time, and the final fic in my Arya/Sandor obsession, Marriage, might be a (probably very long) one-shot.**

* * *

 **Arya**

She got lost in thought waiting for the food. On their ride over, Sandor had told her about his training to become a Faceless Man. He had mentioned in passing that he thought she was married and had children. She wondered if their paths would have crossed if she was lady Arya of House Frey. If she was someone's wife and someone's mother.

When she had joined the Night's Watch, Arya had thought about him in Joffrey's service. That odious little king who had spurned Sansa in favor of a richer family. News of Joffrey's death had made it late to the Night's Watch. Only when she got to King's Landing she had found out that Sansa and her husband, Tyrion Lannister had been accused of the murder and fled. When she had asked about the Hound, she got a dozen different stories, which in her mind added up to Cersei having him killed for not saving her son's life.

But it wasn't Cersei who got him killed. She had done it herself, by sending him after the Night King.

When she saw the meal in front of her, she realized that she hadn't paid any attention to her surroundings. She glanced at the man across the table from her. She trusted him. Enough not to be hypervigilant in a strange room. Enough to go with him over the Shivering Sea. Enough to take him to her brother.

She started at the thought. Jon. Jon knew the Hound. Another secret Jon would have to keep for her sake. Sandor could wear another face, but she didn't want him to. She didn't want him to ever have to hide his face from anyone, but most of all from her.

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly.

Her lips twitched when she shook her head. The question amused her. She'd been in far worse shape after some encounters with the wildlings. The pain didn't bother her, but the wound was deep enough to constrain some of her movements. She needed it to be healed by the time she got to the wall, and riding would impede that.

She looked into his brown earnest eyes. Maybe she was going mad, but she beginning to believe he was Sandor Clegane. And she would always trust Sandor Clegane.

In that inn, far from the vicious winter weather, far from the White Walkers and the Watch, she felt her hardened heart begin to mellow.

The next day, they boarded the ship that would take them all the way to the easternmost castle along the Wall. They were given a room that had previously been used for storage. The gold they had paid made it worth sacrificing that cargo space.

Gold had bought them not just passage to the Wall, but also a great deal of privacy. Whatever the captain thought about the man and the boy who wanted to get to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, he didn't comment.

"Did it open again?" he asked, pointing at her back.

"Don't think so. It stings a little, but that just means it's healing."

"Let me see."

He said it so matter-of-factly, it didn't occur to Arya to say no until she felt his fingers on her skin. Fortunately, she had her back to him, so he didn't see the expression of on her face at the delicate touch.

Her young body was already mending itself, but, at the same time, it demanded things that Arya couldn't afford. It demanded to be touched, caressed, kissed. It demanded to be held. And loved.

She dug her nails in the heel of her palms to keep her breathing normal. She almost wished the wound hurt more so she didn't have such a hard time controlling her reactions.

"You're right," he said. "It's healing very nicely. I'll spread some balm, then it's better to leave the bandages off. It will heal better without them."

"All right," she said, nodding.

 _'That balm better sting.'_

It didn't, but she hissed anyway.

"Sorry," he said. "I'll be gentler."

 _'Fuck, no!'_

She gritted her teeth, hoping that he would take it as a sign of her dealing with pain, instead of the humiliating truth. He was touching her like a concerned older brother, but she enjoyed his touch in a way she never did Jon's.

The first night Arya spent in that tiny room, sharing a bed with Sandor, she stayed rigidly on her side, shamefully aware of the desire he had awakened in her. She fell asleep, thinking of the first night they had been together. Like so many nights before, she squeezed her thighs together, trying to contain the heat generated by the mere memory of touching his body. His big, strong, and defiantly masculine body. A sigh escaped her lips, but he was probably asleep because he didn't say anything.

* * *

 **Sandor**

She kept herself so far from him that Sandor worried she might fall out of bed. He thought that he got used to hiding his feelings, but she must have sensed his desire. She had lived with the men of the Night's Watch for three years. She was probably attuned to male reactions.

When he had helped her undress, his cock had given the first signs of playfulness. By the time they were both in bed, he was almost completely hard. They would be together at sea, day and night, for weeks.

It would have been wise to find a whore to relieve this tension before they left, but something in his depths hadn't allow it. As if it would be disrespectful to Arya to work out the fire she created in him between another woman's legs. He refused to think how stupid he'd been, and resolutely closed his eyes.

He listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the wooden hull, trying to block the sound of her soft breathing. He tried to block the sensation of her warm body close to his focusing on the rocking of the ship. It was going to be a long and painful journey.

The captain had allowed them to use his private toilet. All he had to do was go across the corridor and take matters into his own hands. He postponed the moment. Sooner or later, he would have to resort to pleasuring himself to take the edge off, but not that night.

He almost changed his mind when Arya sighed, but he had to accept that if she felt any desire for him, she would make it clear. At the age of ten and eight, she was a grown woman and no doubt she had been bedded.

The thought did not serve to calm him down. Who would Arya take to her bed? Who would she trust with her secret? One of the other men in the Night's Watch? Or maybe she went into some village near the wall, put on a dress and charmed some green boy who didn't have the wits to wonder who she was. Some wildling? Could she kill a man to whom she had given herself?

Questions plagued him, and the scenarios playing behind his eyelids tortured him. Arya in someone else's arms. Writhing under another man's body. Screaming another man's name as she came apart. The images followed him in his dreams. Before morning, he dreamt he made her scream his own name.

When he woke up, he felt the drying spot on the front of his breeches and the stickiness on his thigh. He went into the bathroom to clean up, wondering how was he going to look her in the eye when he came back.

Maybe the first night would be the worst, he told himself. Maybe he would get used to sharing a room with her. He was a grown man, who could handle his body's unwise desires.

* * *

 **Arya**

How many times had she heard similar sounds in the barracks of the Night's Watch? Too may to count. Most times, she'd been a little grossed out.

She had gotten used to the sound of men and boys masturbating, and she played silent games trying to guess who they were, and how long it would take them to finish. In the morning, she could usually verify her guesses because the ones who had done it, on purpose or in their sleep, seemed more relaxed than the others.

She had taken advantage of every opportunity of privacy to explore her own body, but there had been precious few such occasions. She had never joined anyone else in their self-exploratory activities before, but when she recognized the beginning of the pattern in Sandor, she snuck her hand under her breaches, praying that he wouldn't wake up to catch her doing it.

She touched herself while she listened to Sandor breathing hard, feeling his body tense and shudder, sensing the bed shake in rhythm with his movements, and when she heard that glorious sleeping roar at the end, she let herself come.

She remained in bed, pretending to be asleep when he went out. They were going to their deaths. The world itself was in danger of coming to an end. Did she really want to die a virgin?

The question had occurred to her before, but due to the lack of alternatives, the answer was always that she probably had to. Destiny had brought her the first man she'd ever physically desired, and got them stuck on a ship, sharing a bed, days before they would face White Walkers and their King. If that was not the ideal moment to celebrate life, what was she even fighting for? Satisfied with her reasoning, Arya turned her mind to more practical matters.

Whatever had set off the Hound during the night, surely, he wouldn't mind working it out with her. First, she had to figure out how to approach the matter. She couldn't help feeling he still treated her like a little girl in many ways.

She put on her shirt, without wrapping her chest, to allow the wound to heal. She started brushing her hair and every movement of her arm shifted the fabric of her shirt against her bare breasts. She couldn't remember the last time she had been unwrapped during the day. The cold air in the room and the constant friction between her skin and the shirt hardened her nipples. The sensation kindled the slowly building fire in her belly.

Her mind wandered, imagining ways their conversation might go. Idly, she noticed that her hair was past her shoulders. She had neglected cutting it since she had left Castle Black, a few months earlier. She should cut her hair before they arrived at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Although plenty of men in the Night's Watch wore their hair long, but she didn't want to risk appearing too feminine.

* * *

 **Sandor**

After he finished, he went to the galley. No one asked why they wanted to have breakfast in their cabin. He walked in while she was brushing her hair. She gasped and blushed as if he surprised her doing something shameful. Poor kid. Pretending to be a boy for so many years had left its mark on her.

He had to admit that she looked very feminine. She was dressed as a boy, but she must have skipped a step because he could clearly see the shape of her breasts under the loose shirt. He'd been observing her throughout the journey and this was the first time he could see it. He put the tray on the table and turned to leave as soon as he noticed her nipples poking through the shirt.

"Aren't you eating?" she asked.

"I'm going to get some wine," he said, leaving like a coward.

He went out on the deck of the ship, and looked toward the horizon. He took out the magnet from his pocket. He forced himself to remember the way she looked when she had given it to him. A child. A highborn lady. He had to keep that in mind.

He didn't have to be a knight from stupid ballads. He just had to be a decent man and not ruin the only friendship he had ever had.


	12. Chapter 12

**Smut starts this chapter.**

 **Edited version here because it gets explicit. Find the rest on Ao3. I hate to do this,** **but** FanFiction does not accept explicit content

 **It's in the rules**

* * *

 **Sandor**

The distant memory of Arya Stark's friendship hadn't been too difficult to let go of during his training. Rather, it had been a relief to discard the sorrow he felt for the girl he had left in her gilded cage. The very real presence of Arya Stark, strong and dauntless as she had become, was messing with his body and his mind.

He composed himself as best he could before going back. Being no one had been easy when he didn't have anyone or anything care about.

Arya had finished breakfast, and was sitting cross-legged in bed with a book open in front of her, polishing her sword absent-mindedly. She looked up from the book when he entered.

"No wine?" she asked.

Damn. He forgot the excuse he'd given.

"Didn't feel like it."

"I wouldn't have minded," she said.

He couldn't figure out what if her behavior was any different, or if he was distracted by her breasts, at which he most certainly was not looking. Unfortunately, not looking and not seeing were two very different things, and he didn't have to stare to be dangerously aware of the shapes under the shirt.

"You're too young anyway," he said, more to himself than to her.

He sat down on the bed with his back to her. He wanted to take off his boots, but a voice inside was advising him to put on an armor. Chainmail and leather wouldn't protect him from desiring her, but it would help him remember that he shouldn't act on it.

"You know they don't care how old you are when you join the Night's Watch? I said I was thirteen when I joined, to make it convincing, and no one cared."

"Why did you join?"

She remained silent for so long, he turned his head to look at her. She had her eyes closed, and a grim smile on her face.

"I'm not sure," she said eventually. "For the adventure? To be with Jon? To be myself?"

A short bitter laugh followed her last words.

"I traded pretending to be a lady for pretending to be a boy. Not the best bargain I could've struck."

He wanted to tell her again how much he wished she had come to him, but what would be the point? By the time she might have reached King's Landing, he had already gone.

She would have loved Braavos.

"I'm tired of hiding what I am," she whispered with her eyes still closed, as if she was talking to herself.

When she opened her eyes, he looked away, uncomfortable to have stared at her.

"Check my back, please," she said.

He raised his one good eyebrow at the light tone. She seemed to have cast away the shadows brought on by those memories and past choices.

She was wearing a simple off-white undershirt. It was the same as his, the same as hundreds of others he had seen in his life, but at that moment, it did not look like any of them. She had loosened the lace at the top so that the fabric wouldn't stick to her back.

The shirt was almost falling off her narrow shoulders revealing soft creamy skin. The opening in front plunged sharply between her breasts. He glimpsed the swell of her chest and jumped to his feet.

Sandor rummaged through the bag longer than necessary to get the balm, preparing to touch her skin with the disinterest of a Maester.

He cursed silently when he heard the rustling of fabric which meant Arya had taken off her shirt. He steeled himself for the possibility that she might be facing him when he turned around. Modesty didn't seem to be one of Arya's biggest concerns now that he knew who and what she was.

He thanked the Gods she was face down on the bed, denying that he also regretted the missed opportunity to see her breasts.

"Looks good," he said thickly. He cleared his throat. "Looks better than yesterday. It's healing nicely. No need to put balm on it anymore."

"It's itching," she said quickly. "The balms soothes it."

He had almost gotten away with not touching her. He sat down, and dipped the tips of his fingers in the ointment.

"Don't use much," she said. "No point in wasting it. The touch is what helps with the itching really."

She didn't know how that sounded. All this talk of touching was making him feel itchy, but not in the same way. He'd take care of her, and then go out on the deck again. He could ask the Captain if he could do some work. Preferably somewhere out in the cold.

After the balm warmed to body temperature on his fingertips, he made contact with her skin. Her hiss sounded more like a moan than anything else.

"Is it cold?" he asked, his fingers hovering over her body.

"No," she said, holding her breath.

She kept her face down, pressed into the pillow. He touched her even more gently and she let the breath out in a muffled sigh that did nothing good for his composure.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," she answered.

She denied it but he sensed she was holding back on him. He tried to be deaf to the small noises she was making, but it was difficult to ignore the goose bumps on her skin. Was it really that cold in the room? He felt unreasonably warm.

"You're done," he said, and stood up to put away the balm. "Put your shirt back on."

He wiped his hands on the cloth, waiting for the sound of her getting dressed.

"Actually," she said. "I need you to check something else."

"What?" he asked, still not turning around.

"Come here."

He obeyed without thinking. She was sitting cross-legged again, close to his side of the bed. She had her back to him, and no book in front of her. He stood at the edge of the bed and focused on her wound. It had been deep, but she was a fast healer and the Braavosi ointment had helped. It would turn into a scar soon.

"Sit," she commanded.

Warmth radiated from her skin. His pulse quickened as if he sensed danger.

"Give me your hands," she said, reaching behind her.

Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke.

"You know a lot about human bodies… From your training in Braavos and… other… activities."

Her skin tightened around the wound when she moved. He thrust his hands forward into hers to stop her from reaching too far back and opening her wound. It was the first time he felt her fingers on his since she had helped him with the bow three years earlier. He let her small hands guide his as if he was under a spell.

"Yes. Why?"

She took in a short deep breath.

"I've been wrapping my chest since it started to… you know… grow… I need to know if… everything is… as it should be."

He tried to think of a way to refuse her request before it was too late. It was too late. She pressed his palms over her breasts. Instead of pulling his hands back, he instinctively cupped the two mounds. Arya sighed, and arched into his touch.

"Fuck."

The word slipped out.

* * *

 **Arya**

She felt his breath on her skin when he said the word.

'Fuck indeed,' Arya thought.

Maybe she should have asked him directly about fucking instead of testing the reactions of her body. He was squeezing her breasts lightly, and instead of calming down her tingly nipples, that made every inch of her skin tingled.

She really wanted to know if the wrapping had damaged her breasts but if he said that there was something wrong and he stopped touching her, she might just die of embarrassment or frustration. She removed her hands from his when she realized how forcefully she was pressing his palms into her chest.

Waiting for his next reaction was torture. Would he take his hands away? Would he ask her to turn around to examine her breasts? He did neither. Silently, he moved his palms lower, and cupped her breasts. They felt small in his big hands, but it didn't matter when he captured her nipples between thumb and forefinger.

His silence unnerved her.

"It tingles," she whispered. "Is that normal?"

"Does it hurt?"

His deep raspy whisper made heat course through her veins. It pooled between her legs. It wasn't exactly pain, but it was unbearable nonetheless

"No. Not exactly hurts."

It was difficult to get the words out. Difficult to explain what she didn't understand.

"What then?"

"I don't know. It's like everything… aches."

Her head swam with emotions, anticipation, and fear, and pleasure. She tried to speak again, braving the light-headedness.

"It doesn't feel like that when I do it."

"Only you? No one else touched you like this?"

"Of course not!" she said, shocked by the question. As if she could expose her secret like that! To anyone.

He rested his forehead on the back of her head. His beard scratched her shoulder and his hot breath scorched her skin. The sound of his labored breathing in her ear increased her dizziness.

"Seven hells, girl."

* * *

 **Sandor**

What was she doing to him? Was it a game or she really wanted to know that her breasts were…

He couldn't even complete the thought. He hadn't wanted anything in his life [...]

But she hadn't asked for that. He should clear that up as fast as possible. Soon he would get to a point where turning back would cause him a great deal of pain.

He tried to get his wits back, but he was breathing in her scent. Her hair caressed his face and when she denied ever being touched, she had thrown her head back. His good cheek was flush against her neck. His lips touched her shoulder when he cursed.

"Seven hells, girl."

He wanted to pull her to his chest and start kissing her until she asked him to bed her. [...]

"Your breasts feel fine," he said, not caring how hoarse he sounded. "Anything else you want me to check?"

* * *

 **Arya**

He was still squeezing her breasts. Maybe a little harder than at first, but he had let go of her nipples. They puckered painfully in the cold air.

"Anything else you want me to check?"

Had she just heard the words, she might think he was making fun of her. The tone though… That low, gruff voice… It gave her hope. It gave her a chance to ask.

"Yes," she said.

She was out of breath as if she had run for miles.

"No," she corrected herself. "Not check."

"What then?"

She hesitated. There would be no turning back if she said what she wanted from him.

"I need a favor," she said, and took in a short but deep breath.

"Go on."

His growled encouragement rippled through her like heat waves.

"I want you to…. How to say this without making it sound weird… I would be grateful if you could help me…" She drew in one deep breath and said the words. "With my maidenhead."

His hands stopped. He hadn't taken them away though. Her heart hammered against her ribs, under his palm. She wondered if she would hear his response over the loud thumping of her heartbeat.

Now that she'd taken the leap and told him, she was ready to defend her request. She prepared arguments against his objections.

None came.

His mouth was on her shoulder. His lips, and tongue, and teeth explored her skin. He kissed his way around her body until he was laying on his back and pulling her on top of him. He was still dressed and she had her trousers on, but when his eyes lowered from hers onto her chest, Arya shut her eyes tightly, feeling more naked than ever before in her life.

"They're… very shapely."

His rough throaty voice and the almost menacing tone didn't match the bland words. When she dared to look at him, his eyes lust filled eyes were dark and ravenous. He pulled her on top of him with ease. His coarse beard rubbed against her skin while he kissed and sucked at her breasts.

Arya was overwhelmed by the millions of sensations. For years, her skin hadn't felt the touch of another person. Everything he did served to feed the fire between her legs.

"Fucking gorgeous they are."

His muffled words released a swarm of butterflies in her belly. She tried to speak, to express how much she liked what he was doing, but no words made it passed the ragged breaths. It felt like drowning and like flying at once.

[...]

* * *

 **The missing bits and the rest of the scene, on Ao3, where the story will have (at least) an extra chapter.**


	13. Chapter 13

**On Ao3 you will find a chapter** containing a graphical sex scene, Arya's very first time. It definitely doesn't fit into the rating system allowed here.

Also, I chopped off a few naughty words here. So in the 2 chapters before the last one (15 here, 16 on Ao3) there will be some missing paragraphs here.

* * *

 **Sandor**

Her cheek rested on his chest. From time to time a tremor coursed through her, and he felt the muscles of her face shift into a smile. They were both still breathing heavily, but reality was creeping back in.

"I shouldn't have done that," he said.

"What?!"

Arya jumped off him and he half expected her to reach for her sword. She didn't cover her nakedness with her hands, and he could see the red patches left by his beard, and some purple ones on her neck where he had tasted her maybe too enthusiastically.

"Not that," he said, reaching out to pull her close again. "I should have definitely done that."

She didn't seem convinced and evaded his attempts. He sighed, and elaborated.

"I shouldn't have finished inside you."

He placed his palm flat under her belly button.

 **[...]**

She put on her shirt. It was long enough to cover her mid-thigh. He should give her the breeches she had discarded on the floor, but she looked too appealing like that, only half dressed.

"It could happen?" she asked, looking up at him. "The first first time?

He laughed. "Yes. The first first time."

"Then why did you?"

She sounded genuinely curious. How could she know so much and so little at the same time?

"Didn't have much of a choice," he said.

"Because I was on top of you? I thought it was a pretty common position?"

"Common, ay? Based on what?" he asked, amused.

She flustered a little. "I went to brothels with some of my brothers from the Watch."

It was his turn to be curious. "How did you manage to keep your secret there?"

"I went into a room with a girl, and I made her swear not to tell anyone my secret-"

"You told a whore that you are a woman?"

"First: I was a girl, not a woman," she said tartly.

He laughed, delighted by her attention to this particular detail. He sat down on the bed, enjoying the pretend smugness on Arya's face.

"Second, be serious! Of course I lied. I told her that the reason I was sent to the Watch was that the Lord of my land caught me fooling around with his daughter and cut off my dick. But I was too ashamed and I didn't tell the others."

He gulped. Nope. He hadn't expected that.

"I don't know many lords who would do that," he said. "They might kill the boy, but castrate him…"

"Is that what you think the Warden of the North would do to you?" she asked, smiling sweetly. "Give you the gift a quick death?"

Fuck. What would Eddard Stark do to him if he found out he ruined his daughter?

"I told her I came from the Dreadfort," she said with a shrug.

"Roose Bolton has a daughter?" he asked, still wondering about his own dick and what Lord Stark would do to him.

"Who the fuck cares? What do most people know about House Bolton?"

He nodded. "Their House sigil."

"I'd say that a House that flays people might see dick-cutting as a mild form of punishment."

He pulled her to him and kissed her. He found the talk of dicks being cut quite disturbing, but not enough to curve his renewed desire for her. He growled when she sucked at his tongue, and nearly flipped her on her back. As soon as that wound healed properly, he was going to have her on her back until she demanded to be taken another way. Damn. He was getting hard again. She was probably still sore from her first time.

"To answer your question," he said, playing for time.

"What question?" she asked dazedly, nuzzling at his neck.

"Why I didn't pull out of you in time," he reminded her.

"Oh, that."

He tilted her head upwards. She was blushing. She'd ridden him like a stallion and now she was blushing.

"Yes. That. It felt so fucking good, I couldn't think straight. Didn't want to get out of your pussy. It hurt for you, but for me… It was the best fuck I ever had."

He kissed her again. More fiercely than before. He pulled her atop him and they lost track of time kissing.

* * *

 **Arya**

She was getting the same restless feeling as before. The heat inside her was peppered with a vague stinging sensation. Desire whispered through her, louder and louder with each kiss. She felt his cock coming to life again.

She tried to wrap her fingers around it through the coarse fabric, but he removed her hand gently. He brought it to his mouth and kissed the heel of her palm.

"Not tonight, my lady," he said.

"'m not a lady," she said, her mouth busy learning the shape of his collarbone.

"You are my lady."

She raised her head hearing the soft, serious tone. As if embarrassed by that admission, he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss to which she answered with an unladylike enthusiasm.

She fell asleep in his arms, but when morning came, and she woke up with his hard cock pressing against her thigh, she made it clear that she wasn't backing down again.

They spent their days and nights in that cabin fucking as often as they could. Instead of calming down, their desire for each other kept growing, becoming more desperate the closer they got to their destination.

#

The day he asked her about the Night King was the worst. She had tried to put it out of her mind, not think about the end game, but she steeled her heart and kept the quiver out of her voice when she told him everything she knew about his target. Samwell Tarly knew probably the most. Sandor should talk to him when they got to Castle Black.

Castle Black brought up thoughts of Jon. She couldn't lie to Jon. She wouldn't lie to him. The rest of the Watch would know him as Jaqen, but Jon had to know the truth. She owed him too much to ever lie to him.

#

Visitors from the Westeros nobility were not a common sight, but if Tyrion Lannister could travel all the way to the Wall just to piss off the edge of the world, they could put up with a Lorathi traveler who wanted to see the Great Wall.

To Arya and Sandor's surprise, his appearance passed almost unnoticed in the tidal wave of changes that had taken over the Night's Watch.

In the few months since Arya had left Castle Black, Jon Snow had been elected Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and one of the first things he did was to open the gates of Castle Black to Wildlings who were running from the White Walkers.

The second massive change was that he allowed the Free Folk to join the Night's Watch.

The men from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea were among the first in the Night's Watch who had heard reports of White Walkers, and the first to come face to face with them in their scouting missions in the North, and even they were not thrilled to fight side by side with the people whom they had hunted down and butchered before the threat of the undead arose.

Arya asked permission from the Maester to send a raven to the Lord Commander. She hadn't sent news to Castle Black from Westeros because she hadn't trusted that the ravens wouldn't be intercepted or killed. Maybe news of the deaths of ten Night's Watchmen had travelled all the way north, but Arya was sure that details about the White Cloaks who had killed them had not left King's Landing. Jon needed to know that there would be no support coming from the Iron Throne.

They spent the night in the Eastwatch castle. First night in many when they didn't fuck. First night of the many nights to come when he wouldn't be in her bed.

Before dawn broke, they left for Castle Black on horses the Commander of Eastwatch gave them. They rode west along the Wall.

"Doesn't the Night's Watch kill Wildlings?" Sandor asked when they stopped in a small clearing to eat.

Arya nodded. "Aye, we did that. I figure no on in Castle Black is happy about Jon's decision. Brothers and Wildlings alike."

"But you don't mind."

She shrugged, and handed him bread and meat. "I want to kill with my bare hands the ones who killed my friends. Many of them want to kill me for the same reason."

"And now they're all together, inside Castle Black."

She reached to take the flask of wine he handed her. She brushed her fingers over his.

One last time. She had to try. She had just found him, the missing piece of her soul. She couldn't lose him so soon. She wished she would never lose him. Not to the Night King. Not to his God.

"Please don't go after the Night King," she said.

There was an ocean of sadness in those beautiful blue eyes she didn't love. He shook his head.

"A man must serve. The Many-Faced God is due a name."

"Don't be stupid," she whispered hotly.

"A man must protect what he loves."

The mix between that annoying speech pattern, and the meaning of his words stunned her. He loved her? Well, fuck! That did not make it any easier to accept that he was going to his death. Before she could say anything, Sandor spoke again.

"If he let Wildlings join the Watch. Does that mean that women are now allowed?"

She'd been thinking about that since she heard the news. The women of the Free Folk fought alongside their husbands, defending their homes, as well as in raids over the Wall. Arya had fought plenty spearwives, and killed a fair few of them.

"That's going to be the first thing I ask him or Sam when we get there," she said.

"A man must talk with Samwell Tarly," he said.

Arya had told him about Samwell being the best informed and most open minded people in the Watch. He was Sandor's best chance to understand more about his target.

* * *

 **Sandor**

By his calculations, they were far enough from Castle Black to be out of the range of scouting parties. He put his hand on the back of her neck and leaned down to kiss her. She resisted the kiss, and tried to pull back. They had never touched each other like that outside their little cabin.

She managed to break the kiss and pulled her head back. She was clawing at his armor, but not pushing away as much as trying to shove her fingers through the chain mail.

"It's not your face," she said.

"But it's a such a pretty face," he said, and leaned in to resume the kiss.

"Fucking gorgeous, but not the one I love," she said, grabbing his hair to pull his head back.

He felt her tensing, embarrassed by what she had said.

"You have terrible taste in men," he said, and he was rewarded with a smile.

"I want to fuck you," she said, trying to work her hands under his armor and into his breeches. "Take that face off so I can kiss your lips."

He growled, standing to attention at her explicit request and insistent groping. He could take the face off easily enough, but reapplying it required preparation, and no matter how quick their fucking would be, the night would catch them on the road.

"There's time for one or the other. What do you want more?"

"Fuck!" she said, frustrated.

"Good choice."

He pushed her roughly against the trunk of a massive oak.

"I didn't…"

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to keep speaking. She leaned back against the tree with her eyes closed and her hands questing at the edge of his trousers.

"Fucking," she whispered. "I know it's you under that face."

 **[...]**

He'd been careless again. Too selfish to pull out and protect her. Too desperate to be inside her for as long as he could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Arya talks to Jon**

They were alone in the Lord Commander's small office. Jon looked tired, and far older than Arya remembered leaving him.

He hugged her tightly as soon as she closed the door behind herself.

"I thought you were dead," he whispered in her hair. "I was so happy to get your raven from Eastwatch. What happened?"

Arya told him about the demonstration in front of the Queen and the other nobles.

"Euron Greyjoy is dead," Jon said. "He died a few hours after your demonstration. An Asshai poison, Sam tells me. The Long Farewell."

Her brother, the Lord Commander, was well informed. She vaguely remembered a smug oath wearing the golden kraken on a field of black. So, he was dead. Good riddance to him. One less ally for Cersei. The detail about the exotic poison used was interesting.

"Sam sure knows a lot of shit," Arya said. "Anyway, I left my post at the Dragonpits after they killed the wight. Sansa and Tyrion weren't there and I wanted to ask around for them. I found out quickly enough the circumstances of their departure."

"Do you think they killed Joffrey?" Jon asked.

"Not Sansa. The Imp? I don't know."

"What happened next?" Jon asked.

"The others were coming back to the inn. We all thought everything was all right after the demonstration. Ser Alliser almost smiled. But they were attacked by White Cloaks. Outnumbered three to one, but the men of the Night's Watch took them with them as they died. By the time I got there, there was only Ser Alliser and one big man standing. His face almost like a whight's, all misaligned scars, and dead eyes. He was about to kill us, when someone shot a dart in his neck and he died."

"That was Ser Gregor Clegane," Jon told her. "News of his death were celebrated throughout the land."

Arya felt a cold shiver down her spine at the name. Sandor's brother. The quick manner of his death had always made her wonder if Sandor/Jaqen killed him.

"Ser Alliser and I ran away, we bought prisoners from the City Watch and some boys, a butcher's apprentice, a blacksmith's and other rag tag kids. One night while we camped, we were attacked by Lannister soldiers. They sat everything on fire, tents, wagons, people. I saw Ser Alliser dying, and I ran. I left my black cloak and my sword on some corpse, and I ran away."

She hung her head. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but admitting this to Jon, her cheeks burned with shame.

"I don't care about a piece of cloth and a piece of steel," Jon said. "You're alive, and that's all that matters."

'You wouldn't have run,' Arya thought.

"What about this man who came with you? Who is he?"

"Jaqen H'ghar was one of the prisoners locked in a burning wagon. I gave them an axe to break the bars. He believes he owes me two deaths for the lives I saved."

"What do you mean?"

"He's an assassin, from Braavos. They're a strange sect, who serve their god by killing people for a fee. Sometimes a fee is a live saved. Braavos is weird."

"You and your dreams about Braavos," Jon said. " Why is he here? He's going to keep following you until you tell him who to kill?"

"I was tired and scared. I kept dreaming of the undead we fought. I dreamed about them coming over the Wall and not stopping. "

Jon's jaw clenched while she spoke.

"I gave him a name."

He waited, tense.

"The Night King."

He shook his head, apprehensive. "Do you think he can do it?"

"If that creature can be killed, yes."

"You seem very sure."

"Jon, apart from you, did I ever tell you I trusted anyone else?"

He shook his head, then he seemed to remember.

"Wait, yes. That strange looking man from the King Robert's guard," he said.

She nodded.

"The Hound," Jon said. "Was he among those who attacked you in King's Landing?"

"No. His name is Sandor Clegane. And he is Jaqen."

Her brother stared at her in silent confusion.

"I thought Jaqen is from Braavos."

"It's a little complicated. Jaqen was a man from Lorath. The man you saw earlier, is Sandor Clegane, trained as a Faceless Man in Braavos, pretending to be Jaqen."

"It's been three years and I only saw him in passing before I left Winterfell, but I'm sure I would have recognized the Hound."

"You'd think so, but you didn't. And you wouldn't. No one would. Sandor left the Kingsguard even before Sansa and Tyrion fled. He went to Braavos and trained there."

Jon didn't seem convinced.

"Talk to him yourself. Somewhere private."

"Does he know who you really are?"

Arya swallowed hard. Sandor Clegane knew who she was better than anyone else.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you fuck him?"

She jerked her head up in surprise. Jon didn't mess around with words. Even when it was uncomfortable or if it hurt, he'd always choose the truth over a well meaning lie. Without a direct question, Arya would have omitted this part of the truth.

"Yes."

She expected him to be annoyed or angry or disappointed. She hadn't expected him to stand up from his desk, pull her into a bearhug and ruffle her hair.

"Good. You should get warmth and happiness wherever you can find it."

"The world is really ending," she whispered.

"Maybe not. Maybe your man will fulfill his contract."

Arya blushed. Her man. It was just a figure of speech. Her dog. Her assassin. Her man.

"I am relieved you don't ask to go with him."

A muscle twitched in her cheek. She hoped that Jon hadn't noticed. Fat chance.

"You do want to go with him," he said.

"I'll do more good here. With the Wildlings, if you let me work with them."

"Indeed," Jon said. "They need to understand our language better and how to fight using our weapons."

Jon had asked her about the events in King's Landing, and Arya had obeyed the Lord Commander's request. Now that she had given her report, it was her time to ask the questions that burned in her.

"Jon? Are spearwives allowed in the Night's Watch?"

Her brother looked her straight in the eye.

"Yes," he said.

Arya bowed her head. It was more respect in that gesture than in using his title. He had given her the chance to serve in the Night's Watch under her own identity.

"I will not reveal who I am if you do not think it's wise," she said.

"The old rules are changing, Arya. I will tell everyone who you are. Tonight. Some of the men will not take it well."

"I understand. I lied to them about what I was. They might not trust me any more."

"I'll stand by you," he said. "For this night and all the nights to come."

Her love for her brother blended with respect for the man he had become, and were forged into undying loyalty.

"For this night and all the nights to come," Arya repeated the last words of their oath.

"Send in Jaqen H'ghar," Jon said, sitting back down at his desk.

* * *

 **Jon talks to Sandor**

With Jaqen's face back on, Sandor found it easy to blend among the men of the Night's Watch. He kept surveying the corridor where Arya had left with Jon. He was aware of her presence as soon as she came back.

"The Lord Commander wants to talk to you," Arya said.

They had discussed this. She had already told her brother who he was. He'd have to convince Jon Snow to allow him to leave Castle Black and go North, and to give Samwell Tarly orders to aid in his mission with any scrap of information that might help.

In his office, Jon Snow no longer looked like the shy whelp he'd seen in Winterfell. He didn't share many features with Arya, or with Ned Stark. Sandor, whose mother hadn't lived long enough for him to remember her, wondered if Jon Snow had known anything about his own.

"Who are you?" Lord Snow asked.

"A man has the honor to be Jaqen H'ghar," he said.

He looked out the window, instead of looking at the Lord Commander. It was almost night. Fires were lit in the castle and their light flickered into the dark inner courtyard.

"She told you who I am," Sandor said in a tone closer to his real voice. "I'm going to show you, as a proof of my trust."

He turned his back from the window, and watched Jon Snow over the candle flames.

"This is not a cheap trick. It's not slight of hand, glamour or any arcane magic. We respect those whose faces we wear. They came to our temple to receive the gift, and we, as all men must, served."

He dug his fingers under his chin and reverently removed Jaqen's face. When he looked at Lord Snow, the young man's hand was on a dagger. Shock and revulsion were painted on his handsome features for a few moments, then he deliberately relaxed.

"I read about Faceless Men in Arya's books about Braavos. My friend Samwell Tarly knows other stories about Faceless Men. They kill without mercy. They kill for a price. Women or children."

He bowed his head. "If the fee is correct, the contract is accepted. Not many people are willing to pay the fees for killing children."

"What is a correct fee for the life of a child?" Jon asked.

"If a Lord comes to the Temple and asks the Faceless Men to kill the child of one of his enemies, the fee can be the life of one of the Lord's own children. If the Lord is willing to pay the price, the contract is accepted."

"So, you'd kill two children, or none?"

"It is so," Sandor answered in the same tone as the Kindly Man would have.

"What was the price for the Night King?"

"A man's life was saved from the flames. A death is owed to the Many-Faced God. The name the God expects is the Night King."

"You look like Sandor Clegane, but you don't speak like him."

"For three years I trained and I became no one. I let go of Sandor Clegane. Of his memories and his attachments. When I talk about what I am now, I do it in the terms in which I learned my new life."

"Your new life includes fucking my sister."

Sandor hadn't expected Lord Snow to be so direct.

"That was an unforeseen… complication."

At first, Jon Snow pierced him with a sharp gaze, but his features softened, as if the flame of a memory warmed his heart.

"Love so often is," he said.

Sandor's face remained impassive, but his heart skipped a beat. The young man read him too well for comfort. He'd somehow seen straight into his heart.

He loved Arya.

"We'll talk about this when you get back from your mission," Jon Snow said.

"Lord Commander," Sandor said. "I ask permission to speak to Samwell Tarly. I would be grateful if he shared his knowledge of the Night King and other creatures beyond the Wall."

"You have it. May your God give you strength to complete your mission."

He left, wearing his own face. He skulked through shadows until he found Samwell Tarly's study.

* * *

 **Arya and Sandor say goodbye**

The entire castle buzzed with the shock of the revelation of her identity. Some men were upset, other were making rude remarks, others got upset about the disrespectful words about someone who had fought by their side and bled in the service of the Night's Watch.

Jon and Arya seemed the type of people to take great personal risks. Lord Snow's decision to let in the Free Folk had made him a target of hate for many men in the Watch.

Arya was the cause of discontent for many men simply for being a woman. The fact that she had went through the same training as them, had been on the same missions and fought the same fights, didn't matter for some of them.

He feared that at his return, he would find her harmed by her own people.

She found him immediately after he talked to Samwell Tarly despite how careful he'd been to stay in the shadows. He needed time and privacy to put Jaqen's face back on. Until then, he had to hide, but she had found him as if it were child's play to spot him in the dark.

"When are you leaving?"

"First light."

"I should come with you."

"I didn't take you for a coward," he said.

"What did you say to me?" she asked with a snarl.

"You want to run away because people found out you're a little girl, and they're upset."

"A woman," she said softly. "I'm a woman."

"Aye. You are."

"You still ow me a name," she said. "You promised you'd come back to pay your debt."

He nodded. "I will come back."

"Sam left to take care of his duties as Maester Aegon's assistant," she said.

He tried to make out her features in the darkness of their corner, to get a clue about why she told him that. She made it easy by rolling her eyes with exaggerated irritation.

"His study is empty while he's gone," she said.

He could do what he needed to become Jaqen.

"Can you get me in there?"

"Yeah," she said, amusement clinking like silver bell in her voice. "I can get **you** in there."

She shook her head, apparently baffled by his dimness, and led the way. Like a thief, she jimmied the lock and opened the door. When they were both inside, he put set his bag on a chair and watched her work diligently on the lock again until the metal slid in place securing the door closed.

Her eyes sparkled when she turned around and they were in each other's arms without a word.

"We'll have to be quiet," she whispered between kisses.

'And careful,' he thought, kissing his way down her body, aware that his beard would leave marks on her face and exposed neck. He tugged at her shirt and she raised her hands allowing him to take it off her in one fluid move.

"I want you," she whispered.

He put his hands on her hips and Arya wrapped her legs around his waist.

"That desk looks sturdy," he said.

"So lucky Sam is tidy," she said when he placed her on the empty desk.

His mouth was too busy with her breasts to answer, but his hands were already working the laces of her trousers. In seconds she was completely naked on Sam's desk. Her lithe body trembled with desire. Her hard nipples sparkling with his saliva looked like precious pearls on her pale skin.

"Want you inside me." She panted. "Now."

He didn't bother undressing. He entered her in one swift motion, hardening and swelling with each thrust. Her muscles tensed and stretched out around him, welcoming him, drawing him deeper. He would never get tired of seeing his cock sinking in her, but he had to look up. He wanted to see her face when she came apart under him one last time.

Arya's eyes were swimming with tears.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes," she said.

He knew what hurt. He felt the same intense soul searing pain. Pleasure built up in their bodies, and tears slid out of Arya's eyes when she crested. He spilled himself inside her again, his heart breaking to know he would leave her.

Maybe forever.


	15. Chapter 15

While Sandor is away to kill the Night King, an army of the undead swarms Castle Black and tries to take it by sheer weight of numbers.

Eddard Stark had believed Jon. The Starks and other great Houses had sent troops in support of the Night's Watch. The wights had broken through the Wall in many places, tearing down portions of it. Arya was at Castle Black, but the battlefield was all along the Wall, from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea all the way to Shadow Tower.

There are other White Walkers apart from the Night King, but let's just say that there were other glorious fights, which happened outside this story.

Masks needs to end here. Today.

* * *

 **Arya**

The undead came in never ending rows. They rolled against the castle walls like waves of flesh and bone and death. They crumpled under the obsidian tipped arrows, melted under the wild fire and burned under the living fire of the dragons.

No matter how many they destroyed, more took their place.

After countless days and nights of continuous battle, the wights broke through their defenses and they kept pouring in the castle.

The air stunk of dead flesh. Burnt flesh. Rotting flesh.

Arya and her wildlings fought without respite. She had trained them as best she could in the time they had, but by the end, it was a test of endurance, not of skill. She'd been hurt, and she knew it. As long as she could still move, she kept fighting. She protected her belly as best she could, but not even thoughts of her unborn babe kept her from the thick of the battle. The time for shooting arrows from a distance was long past.

She fell to her knees, the undead swarming over her, tearing at her flesh with their fleshless fingers. And suddenly, they crumbled to bits, burying her into a heap of bones, flesh and rags. She shook them off her and jumped to her feet, sword in one hand and dagger in the other.

All around her, only the Night's Watch stood.

Every man, woman and child had the same expression on their face. A fear born from hope. Could it possibly be over? Or would the dead rise again?

In the sky above them, the three dragons flew over the battlefield. She raised her head to look for Jon. Danaerys, Jon and Tyrion were all looking into the distance, toward the frozen north, then at each other. Just like the fighters on the ground, the dragon riders didn't dare to believe that it was over.

Danaerys was the first to raise her hand in triumph and the Dothraki started howling their blood curdling cries of war. The Westerosi armies and the wildlings joined in their own roars of victory.

Arya's heart swelled with relief and she prayed to the Gods, old and new, that Sandor didn't die with the Night King.

She dragged herself into Sam's study, where she was sure not to be disturbed, and started cataloguing her wounds. Her pregnancy was not yet visible, but it was certain. She had not had her moonblood two moons in a row. There were some slashes on her hips, plenty of others on her arms and legs, but the belly seemed miraculously untouched.

She got dressed again, and joined the celebration.

#

Arya sat among the wildlings at the feast. She looked fondly at her brother and the Dragon Queen. A knot of tears formed in her throat when she saw Danaerys look at Jon with unguarded fondness. She refused to give in to sadness. Even if Sandor was dead, something of him lived on in her.

When Jon signaled her to follow him, she went after him. They walked in silence to the Lord Commander's office.

"He did it, didn't he?" Jon asked once they were inside.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'll know it if he comes back."

"He will come back," Jon said. "I may never see him again, but he will come to you."

"It's almost over. And I'm afraid he didn't make it. The more time passes, the worse the fear gets."

"You love him, too."

"My Lord Commander," Arya said formally, to put an end to that part of the conversation. "I ask leave to go North with the Free Folk. They will settle new steadings now that the threat has passed. If they are part of the Night's Watch, these steadings will be outposts for the Watch."

"You want command of a garrison of wildlings, Ranger Stark?" her brother asked, without mocking her.

"If the wildlings choose me as their leader, I will serve as their commander. If not, I will follow whoever they choose. I want to be one of the Free Folk, even as I guard the realms of men. I want to be free. "

"You've always been free, Arya. So much has changed now. Don't you want to go to Winterfell to be with your family?"

A string tugged at her heart. Winterfell. Mother and Father. Bran, Rickon, and Robb. Tyrion had brought Sansa back, too. It would be good to see them all. But she had changed too much to belong with them. Blood of her blood though they were, they were ghosts of her past. Bittersweet memories of a life she had chosen to leave behind.

She shook her head slowly.

"I have a new family now."

She meant the Watch, but there was also the hope… of something else. Of someone else.

She should tell Jon about the child. But it was winter still and as she had learned from the free folk, it was bad luck to name children before you knew for sure they would survive. She resolved to tell Jon about the child after the naming.

"You will leave with the Wildlings and be their commander if they choose so," Jon said. "Though it saddens me to lose you."

"You will never lose me. One word, and I'll be at your side," she said. "I will send you a raven when we're settled."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow, at dawn. The Free Folk are eager to go back home. Some chose to stay south of the Wall, on the lands you promised them, but the others will leave at first light"

Jon held her in his arms for a long time, and Arya drew strength from his loving embrace, and gave back all she could.

* * *

 **Sandor**

He burned through all his Faces, one after the other, using them in ways the Kindly Man had warned against. He'd used them to be invisible to the eyes and unseen to the ears. He'd used his blood and the sacred masks to hide himself from all his enemy's senses, natural an unnatural. That drained all his energy, and when he got close to the Night King, he was almost frozen.

His blood didn't flow from the wound at first. He pumped his fist a few times to get enough to coat the length of the blade.

The last face burned to ashes on his face when he stabbed the Night King in the heart. He saw the wights crumble to the ground when the creatures exploded in shards of ice. The force of the explosion pushed Sandor from the cliff. He was too weak to control the fall.

He didn't know how he survived. When he reached the bottom of the slope, his whole body was a wound. Bone stuck out through his skin, under his knee, and all he could feel was pain. He somehow found the strength to crawl.

The Children of the Forrest brought him back from the edge of death.

"You still have a debt to pay, young one," the childlike being said. "All men must die, but your God says, not today."

He fell into some kind of trance after that. He dreamt while his bones mended themselves, while skin regrew over torn flesh. He dreamt endless dreams but when he woke up, he only remembered on dream. Arya. In pain.

He had to find her.

#

As soon as he reached the gates of Castle Black, he was granted an audience with the Lord Commander.

"Arya went North, with the Free Folk four moons ago," Lord Snow told him. "I have not yet received a raven from her."

"How could you let her go into the north?"

Frustration laced the edges of his voice. Fear boiled inside him. After everything, to lose her… He couldn't stand the thought.

'Fear cuts deeper than swords.'

"Had I not allowed it, I wouldn't know to tell you now that they went north east," the Lord Commander said coldly.

"Thank you, Lord Commander," Sandor said.

"Talk to Sam and get whatever provisions you need. You may leave when you want. Go where you want."

"I will go north east."

Jon nodded, pleased with his answer. His features softened again, mellowed by that inner fire that must have been a long lost love.

"I gave her the choice to go back to Winterfell. But she chose a new life for herself. I believe you are part of that life. I trust you are aware how much that means."

"Indeed I do."

#

Tracking through a frozen tundra was not something they taught him in the House of Black and White. Even with the threat gone, the Free Folk had masked their tracks out of habit. He lost their trail, and found it again like the stubborn hound he was.

Sometimes at night, staring into the fire that kept him alive, he thought it would have been wiser to stay at Castle Black and wait for a raven from Arya, telling them their location. Something stronger than wisdom yanked his chain and tugged him out of the walls of the castle.

The Free Folk had joined forces with the Crows, and maybe they wouldn't go back on their word, but freedom was too dear to those people. Most likely the raven arriving at Castle Black would not reveal the real location of the wildlings. He suspected that not even Lord Snow expected to find out where they truly were.

It was the second full moon he saw since he had left Castle Black. He heard the wolves deep in the forest, and wanted to join their chant. The howl filled his chest and he didn't stop it. He put all his fear and hope in it, and howled.

The next day he found small traces in the forest telling him he was approaching a human settlement. He raised his empty hands in the air when he spotted the rustling leaves which told him there were scouts around.

"My name is Sandor Clegane, and I mean you no harm."

"What are you doing so far north, Moon-Howler?" a booming voice asked from the distance.

He saw the crossbow pointed at him in his mind's eye. His armor would survive a direct hit. His head would not survive the arrow.

"I am looking for Arya Stark."

The wildling let himself be seen. Sandor was not surprised by the location, but he was surprised by the size of the man who unfolded from that bush. He was probably even taller than himself, with flaming orange hair, a grin on his face and eyes sparkling with mirth.

"You look nothing like I expected," the man said, inviting him to follow.

"What did you expect?" Sandor asked, walking behind the huge ginger.

"Someone small and feisty like her. And prettier. Definitely prettier."

"Why did you expect someone at all?" he asked, the fear that he might be led into a trap catching up to the sudden hope that Arya was close.

He heard the scream before the big man answered. Her voice. His name.

Sandor bolted toward the village, zeroing in on the sound. Screams of pain and his name. He pushed aside the man who stood in front of the door and entered with his sword drawn.

"You took your time," Arya said, panting.

"Time to push again," the old woman said.

"Either in or out," a younger woman half his size said in an authoritative tone.

He couldn't take his eyes from Arya's face, scrunched up in pain, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead, running down the sides of her bright red face.

The young woman poked him hard. "Go hold her hand," she said, and ushered him to the side of Arya's bed.

Arya's hand looked so small in his. He gritted his teeth while she crunched his fingers in her tiny fist.

"Breathe now," the old woman told Arya.

"Are you all caught up?" Arya asked, puffing short breaths.

He nodded dumbly. She was having his child. It was like a good dream from which he didn't dare waking. Was he asleep? Dead? He pressed his lips against her temple.

"Push," the old woman said, and Arya squeezed his hand again.

The pain was sharp, and told him that he might never wield a sword again if she kept squeezing. But it was worth it if everything was real.

Arya's roar of pain ended with another cry. The old woman placed the babe in the white cloth the younger one held. He hadn't even realized that Arya had let go of his hand until she saw her reaching out to take the crying child.

"He has his mother's lungs," the young woman said when she placed it gently in Arya's hands.

The boy opened big round brown eyes and looked up at him. Sandor fell to his knees next to the bed and he was at eye level with the little creature nestled quietly at Arya's breast.

Arya shivered and he reached down to pull the blanket over her. He noticed that the dark fabric was not a blanket, but a tattered black cloak.

"Jon didn't get around to change the oath," she said. "I can't father children, but there's no mention of giving birth."

He laughed, weariness slowly fading away from his soul. Just like Arya to think about her duty to the Night's Watch.

"Good," he said, smiling fondly at the two of them. "We should hurry before he figures out that you can take a husband."

"Local customs say you have to capture me first," she said.

He wrapped his hand gently around her wrist. "Got you," he said. His son put his little hands on his fingers, and a big gummy smile appeared on his face. "Both of you."


End file.
